


Her Deadly Hands

by IDoNotBiteMyThumbAtYou



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, F/M, Female Eivor (Assassin's Creed), Female Eivor/Randvi, Lesbian pining, Lesbians, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Slow Burn, Warning: heterosexual sex, at this point I should call it plot with the promise of porn, but mostly lesbians, by which i mean real eivor, canon divergent: the longhouse has doors, canon divergent: the map stays in one piece, gay misery, lustings to friends to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28701450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IDoNotBiteMyThumbAtYou/pseuds/IDoNotBiteMyThumbAtYou
Summary: Randvi has a duty upon which the peace of two clans hangs: play the role of dutiful wife and future queen in a strange new clan.Now if she could just stop fantasizing about her husband's sister.Chapter 5"What an embarrassment to believe we were both resisting temptation when all along, I was the one holding hard to something she likely never felt."Randvi watches helplessly as Eivor seems to move on.
Relationships: Eivor/Randvi (Assassin's Creed), Randvi/Sigurd Styrbjornson
Comments: 140
Kudos: 394





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, I'm looking for a Beta. If you have experience with erotica that would be especially great because I am doing my best.
> 
> There will be some Randvi/Sigurd sex scenes. lmk if I need to put a skip warning or something for that.
> 
> Lastly I’m going to go with the chill pretend fantasy Norse as portrayed in the game.

**Late Spring**

Written tightly in the margins of an unfinished latin bible:

> _The feast is over, and Sigurd leaves for the south at first light. He and all his finest drengur - but one - are gathered at the far end of one long table to discuss their coming journey. Only Eivor sits apart, one table away. She is without a doubt the finest warrior in the raven clan and yet excluded from the journey._
> 
> _She is still nursing a horn of ale, interjecting biting commentary into their conversation between sips. For now they are tolerant of her light hearted mockery and meet her words with laughter._
> 
> _Eivor tips back the last of her ale. Her interruptions have become longer and, I presume, crueller. Her targets become silent when she speaks and their laughter more strained. She is either ignoring or missing their cues. They want her to leave. They drive her off now, in angry mockery masked by good natured jocular shouts._
> 
> _“Protect the clan, Wolf-kissed!”_
> 
> _“Teach the future generations!”_
> 
> _That’s all that’s been loud enough for me to hear._
> 
> _She stands and walks away as they shout and throw food at her, her flushed grimace can hardly be mistaken for a smile._
> 
> _Sigurd is about to embark on the journey of a lifetime. It could take him months. Years. Who knows what wonders he will see? What riches he will find. What new friendships and alliances he could forge?_
> 
> _And Styrbjorn Jarl has expressly forbidden her to go._
> 
> _[6 pages back] “All but you, Wolf-kissed” Styrbjorn singled her out before the gathered warriors when Sigurd proposed his plan. She stepped forward, red-faced and confused. “We need you here to protect the other ravens, to teach the next generation. If all our best are off across the ocean for who knows how long, who will keep us strong here?”_
> 
> _[5 pages back] Eivor has protested in private as Sigurd and his men begin the first round of preparations for their journey. I was there - seated slightly apart and unheeded behind the Jarl. And in private Styrbjorn has spoken his true mind._
> 
> _“You are as my own child, Eivor,” the Jarl said_
> 
> _Eivor nodded respectfully._
> 
> _“However, you are impulsive and unrestrained. I fear for the safety of my son and his men with you leading one of their ships on such a journey”_
> 
> _Blunt. Unmistakable. There will be no changing his mind_
> 
> _So here Eivor is, thrashing against an impotent, directionless rage and choosing to point it towards her fellow warriors rather than keep to herself._
> 
> _It isn’t a very flattering light in which to see her. I can only hope that these lesser traits will remind me that she is only human and keep thoughts of her out of my dreams once and for all. It hasn't worked yet but it is worth a try._
> 
> _I already have a thorough catalogue of Eivor’s personal failings._
> 
> _[6 pages back:] ...Eivor is stubborn, and hot headed, and doesn’t listen to advice. Despite her speed she has no grace, she can’t hold her drink - as she is demonstrating tonight. Her voice sounds like a bag of crushed flint thrown down the side of the cliff. She is obsessed with how others - especially the men, the other warriors - see her. She is even more obsessed with honor. Every time I think of her posturing I want to laugh in her face to see if that…_
> 
> _And now I have another thing to add to the list: she does not know where to put her anger when she cannot bludgeon it into the skull of an enemy._
> 
> _Unfortunately this close scrutiny has also left me with an equally clear catalogue of all the personal traits that are not quite terrible._
> 
> _[12 pages back] ...Eivor is strong, sturdy, and beautifully built. Her hands are steady and confident - gods those hands of hers. I can’t stop thinking about those hands pressed against my back. I wish they had steadily and confidently strayed a little lower. Should I indulge in these thoughts? Will this help burn the spell away?_
> 
> _[8 pages back] ...I’ve noticed that for all her swaggering strength, she is kind and patient with those weaker than her. She seems to like children and always takes the time to teach them what she knows._
> 
> _[3 pages back] She hasn’t wanted to talk to me since what happened, but I’m noticing that getting her to focus might be difficult for anyone even under the best of circumstances. She spouts poetry with no warning. She stops to pet dogs, no matter the importance of the conversation at hand…_
> 
> _She saw me glaring at her. The already unhappy twist of her face became even more bitter than before._
> 
> _Eivor likely thinks I hate her after what she did - what we did - behind the waterfall. And that’s fine. Safer, even._
> 
> _If the winters in Norway are cold enough to freeze blood, I vow to be cold enough to freeze hearts._
> 
> _The Jarl is wrong about her of course. I have not been with the Raven clan long, but I already know Eivor to be a woman of grudgingly admirable restraint._

* * *

**The previous winter**

As the daughter of a Jarl herself, Randvi never imagined that she would be able to marry for love the way her peers seemed to expect. There was nothing to be done. Her path was her path, and like a river it couldn’t change, it could only move forward. What was the point of caring?

Her first meeting with Sigurd was brief. Their journey to Fornburg had been dogged by bad luck and bad weather. A winter wedding was unusual, but war meant they didn’t have the luxury to spend years planning as they might otherwise. By the time they arrived, the already rushed wedding was only a day away. 

Randvi beheld her soon to be husband for the first time in a discussion of terms with his father and her mother, to confirm the match and the treaty. She had been relieved to see a young man, about her age. Red hair even brighter than hers. Her intended had seemed kind, and gentle enough, a man she could envision a life with. A man she could imagine herself deciding to love. It added some welcome clarity to the vision of her uncertain future to know that her children would have red hair. 

There was the ceremony, there was pomp, there was an ostentatious feast and plenty of mead. Randvi floated along, pretending to believe the facade that the wedding was in any way about her. Celebrants cheered to a union of two lives with their words, but their hearts, bellies, and songs celebrated the end of a war. She drank the expected copious mead and prepared for a life of muted warmth. 

And then there was Eivor. 

Randvi heard a voice on the other side of her new husband - “Sigurd! Sigurd!” and saw a tall, lean figure bend to speak to him - gripping his shoulders in a show of camaraderie to hide a booze-addled lack of balance. The voice sounded hoarse from shouting. “Married for one evening and already your wife is bored of you! Look at her! Talk to her!” 

Sigurn playfully pushed the speaker away. The figure stumbled, stood upright and looked down at her with an appraising, drunken half smile

If Randvi had been floating pleasantly on her back letting the water take her where she was supposed to go, then this moment of eye contact felt like she had been slammed by a longboat and pulled by her gut under the foam. 

The woman radiated pure power. She was taller than every other woman Randvi had met in the Raven clan so far, and most of the men. She wore her blonde hair braided and back, with one side shorn to proudly display a raven clan tattoo. Her unusually sharp features and strong tapered jaw set in easy confidence - perhaps even arrogance. A long thin scar on her left cheek touched the corner of her mouth as though to purposely draw the eye there. Its harshness highlighting the human warmth of her crooked smile.

Her long sturdy neck - mottled with another vicious looking scar - melded harmoniously with the strength of her broad shoulders. Her bare arms - which looked to have been carved over the years by hammer, bow, and axe, and polished with blood - shone in the firelight of the sultry longhouse heat, her forearms, her long fingers… Randvi’s heart pounded like she was in danger - because looking at this woman, she knew that she was.

It must have shown on her face. It must have looked like disgust or horror. Because Eivor stiffened with discomfort and glanced away.

“I’m interrupting, aren’t I brother?” she asked Sigurd.

“Not at all! She should meet you, Eivor!” Sigurd said joyously.

Brother. 

“Randvi, _wife”_ Sigurd said proudly, “this is Eivor. My sister by honor if not by blood.” he clapped a brotherly hand on Eivor’s shoulder, “Family in all the ways that matter.”

Sister.

“Welcome to the Raven clan!” Eivor placed a hand over her own heart, and spoke a little more loudly than necessary, amplified by drink, “I hope to know you better, and as a fellow transplant, I will be all too happy to show you the sights. You don’t know it yet, but my brother doesn’t - ”

Randvi stood abruptly, cutting off what would no doubt have been a clever jab, and gave Eivor the minimum possible acknowledgement. Her heart jolted in panic as she left the table, and stumbled to join the dancing.

“My wife is a good judge of character!” Sigurd was saying behind her, “good thing you didn’t recite the poem!”

“Oh shut up!”

“What! You mean to say you _didn’t_ have a poem prepared?”

At the end of the night came the final rite of the wedding and - more importantly - the treaty of peace between clans. With half a dozen people waiting outside the door to make sure it happened, Randvi and Sigurd sealed their union.

Randvi closed her eyes, held on to her husband and begged the gods that this would take and give her a strong, healthy son so she wouldn’t have to do this again for a long time.

It didn’t take, and when Randvi bled again 2 weeks later, she asked to be taken to the clan’s völva so she could consult with her. Of course she had only been in Fornburg for 2 weeks and a wedding, and thus needed an escort to show her the way. And of course Sigurd recommended Eivor. Perhaps sensing the nature of her visit, and assuming that a woman would be more appropriate to accompany her. He couldn’t have known he was forcing her to spend time with the person who had been the uncomfortable obsession of her previous two weeks. 

They rode to Valka’s hut in silence. She could feel Eivor watching her out of the corner of her eye, and strove to keep her face serious and chilly. They arrived at the hut, and the völva - a surprisingly young woman whom Randvi thought she remembered from the wedding - stepped out to greet them. 

“Eivor.” she spoke quietly with warmth. Her voice was low and roughly crisp, like boots in fresh snow. 

“Valka.” Eivor said with a respectful nod.

“You haven’t been sleeping well, I see.”

“No.” Eivor admitted, “but we’re not here for me.”

Valka turned to face Randvi with a friendly searching gaze. 

“Ah, Randvi - the newest member of our clan. Enjoy that title, because you won’t have it for long. Jagna is days away from the birthing bed.”

“I wish her a safe delivery. _”_ Randvi said, “which, strangely enough, brings us to why I’m here.”

Valka nodded again and led the way into her hut. Randvi stepped into the narrow entry and was immediately warmed and revolted in equal measures by the smoke. Sweet, acrid, and thick. But also comfortingly familiar. Somehow every volva hut smelled like this. Valka instructed her to sit down as she tended to some things and Randvi took in the meticulously cluttered space. Every bit of the room filled with a poultice or potion or tool. All crafted with great skill for mysterious purposes. She jumped to see another person already nestled quiet and watchful in the corner.

“Oh! Hello.” 

The woman said nothing at Randvi’s exclamation. “My mother” Valka said without looking up.

“Hello, Svala.” Eivor said gently.

The woman did not acknowledge her and continued to stare straight ahead.

“How is she?” Eivor asked, not at all surprised to see the woman.

“Good days and bad days. Today is a bad day, I’m afraid. Take this,” She handed Eivor a bowl of a hot liquid, “And wait outside. No listening.”

“What an accusation! Why would I listen?”

“Out.”

Eivor went outside as bid, and from where she was sitting Randvi could just see her as she settled on the fence and said hello to Valka’s horse.

“She is a creature of ravenous curiosity, that one.” Valka said fondly, and Randvi felt an affectionate warmth at such a description. “So. Randvi.” Valka said briskly. Outside, Eivor now leaned on the fence facing the road, arms crossed in an easy nonchalance. “Randvi!” Valka punctuated her name with a snap, startling her attention away from the woman outside, to find Valka crouched directly in front of her, offering a bowl. “Please, drink this before we start.”

“What will it do?”

“Hopefully? Warm you up. It’s tea.”

Randvi chuckled, feeling a little foolish, and took a sip of the warm sweetened drink. “Thank you.”

“Now, what brings you to me?”

Randvi took a deep breath, “I have lain with my husband,” she said.

Valka nodded, “and I hope you were well told what to expect by your mother, and the elder women.”

“I was well prepared. And…” She paused, Valka seemed strangely, instantly trustworthy, but this was still a fragile business, “This was... not my first exploration of that nature. I knew what to expect.”

Valka smiled, noting, encouraging, “Pain? During? After?”

“Very little.”

Silence. Valka’s searching, patient gaze considered her for a long moment. “There is something you are afraid to say.” She said finally. Randvi stayed perfectly still as the world swayed. Valka lowered her voice further. “You are safe here, no matter what, Understand?

Randvi nodded again, belly swooping.

“Has someone hurt you?”

“No”

“Are you afraid of Sigurd?”

Randvi almost laughed, “No.” 

Valka furrowed her brow, considering. “You said you have ‘explored in that way’ before, have you had need to rid yourself of a pregnancy in the past?”

Randvi shook her head. She didn’t add that such a thing would have been impossible without intervention from the gods themselves, given whom she had escaped to the woods with in her teenage years

Valka’s shoulders relaxed perceptibly, “It is very rare for a child to result from one coupling.” she said gently, correctly deducing Randvi’s concern.

“It hasn’t been just one coupling!” Randvi said desperately “These last two weeks I have been pulled aside by my husband many, _many_ times. I’ve hardly gotten anything done. And now I’m bleeding again.”

Valka looked at her mildly as though waiting for Randvi to arrive at the problem.

“That’s all. I’m bleeding again.”

“Then everything is working the way it should.”

“I want to be sure I am _able_ to conceive.”

“There is nothing from what you’ve told me to suggest you cannot. The children will come when they are ready to exist.”

Randvi failed to hide her disappointment at this simple answer, and Valka tilted her head down to catch Randvi’s gaze.

“Most women who seek my assistance with this problem do so after years of trying. Not two weeks.”

“I just want to make sure I’m doing everything right.”

Valka shook her head and did not look away. That penetrating stare was relentless. “What is this really about?”

Randvi wondered if Eivor was still leaning on the fence, or if she was petting the horse again. She wanted to see what she was doing, but knew that to look would leave her bare. She fought the impulse and succeeded enough that it only manifested as a flinch. “I fear I’m cursed.” 

She liked Sigurd very much, and even felt confident that she could love him a bit, until it came time for him to put his hands on her. Then she resented his desire for her. His hands felt like dry sand on her skin. His mouth, his saliva, his fluids all disgusted her. Whenever he fucked her, she hated him a little and wished it would be over as quickly as possible. Afterwards she felt as accomplished as she might after a perilous battle, and the genuine affection she felt for him quickly returned.

But her loins were not bereft of all desire. She woke from fervent dreams with Eivor’s name choked in her throat and the cleft between her legs wet and swollen. She caught herself licking her lips when Eivor spoke, and daydreaming about touching her hair - braiding it gently or grabbing it hard. She wanted to fight Eivor, flatten her by underhanded means, step on her, straddle her and… 

Only two weeks and the thoughts had consumed her, with quiet, lonely flames. She buried her head in her hands. “I’m cursed.” She repeated.

Valka looked searchingly at Randvi, and sent an equally appraising glance at where Eivor had left the room. “I see.” she said. And Randvi truly believed that she did. The terror she thought she’d feel at this moment was absent but she couldn’t speak. Valka gently tilted Randvi’s chin with one finger to encourage eye contact. Her face was serious. “It’s not a curse.” She said this with the gravity of one teaching a child the dangers of fire “but there is a magic upon you, that cannot nor should not be lifted. It will behave like a curse while your circumstances are what they are, but should you ever find a home of your own, this magic will unfurl into beauty unlike any you have even imagined for yourself. Understand?”

Randvi wasn’t sure she did. She preferred facts to prophesy. But she nodded all the same.

“In the meantime, how would you like to proceed? The choice is entirely yours.”

If she had wanted Valka to aid her escape out of Norway, she might have felt safe to ask even that. But the pull of duty to her family both old and new was stronger even than the pain. “I want to get it over with. I must be a dutiful wife. I must bear a son. And I must ensure the peace of two clans. Afterwards, who knows.”

“A terrible weight to place the lives of two clans on one person,” Valka said, “In that case, you must keep this magic secret, for now. But fear not. The heat of your current spell will burn off with time if you let it run its course. You must be strong. I can offer medicine that might help, but I cannot make a child miraculously appear. And I cannot change your marriage,” she touched Randvi’s cheek with the familiarity of a grandmother. “or your fate.”

Valka explained that a child was more likely to result after sex if she was also aroused during the act. She gave her a tea to offer Sigurd on days when she needed to dampen his desires, and prescribed a regimen of self pleasuring, and a little jar of oil. She instructed her to place one drop of the oil on her wrist and let it soak in, only on evenings when she had not consumed strong ale or mead, and taught her how to track when in her cycle would be the most beneficial time to act.

“One last thing,” valka said, “I believe you brought several bound books as part of your heimanfylgja?”

“Yes.” Five sturdy books - an extravagant luxury, and outrageous display of wealth which - Randvi suspected - had been included to drive up the price of her mundr.

“I would like you to keep one of those books.”

This time Randvi really did laugh, but Valka was unperturbed.

“The one with the least text within it, if possible.”

She was serious. “It’s _not_ possible.” Randvi said, aghast, “That heimanfylgja is a symbol of our properties becoming one. It belongs to my husband and his family.”

“I am aware of its purpose. But I think I know Sigurd, and if you ask him, he might grant it to you. I want you to choose the book with the least writing in it, and write down your thoughts. Whatever comes to you, about your feelings, about your marriage... about her. Then hide it well, knowing that you can know yourself peacefully even if others cannot yet.”

“I will ask.” Randvi said, but she was skeptical and didn’t bother to hide the fact.

Satisfied, Valka opened the door. “Eivor, we’re finished. You can escort this one home - unless you have need of something? Maybe something for your sleep?”

Eivor laughed and fiddled with the already perfectly fastened bridle of her horse.”ahhh I’m afraid I will have to endure sleepless nights for now. It will pass.” She glanced furtively at Randvi then back to the horse. “It’s good for me to be thrown off balance every once in a while.”

“Hm.” Valka narrowed her eyes, “I’ll allow it. But if the sleeplessness persists for much longer, come back. I will be very displeased if you get yourself killed stupidly because you were tired.”

“Understood, Valka.” Eivor mounted her horse. “You have my word.”

Ranvdvi mounted her house as well and, with a final thank you and farewell to Valka, followed behind. 

When they were back on the path, Eivor paused and turned her horse around to face Randvi, “Let us take the long way back, down the other side of the mountain. Complete your tour.”

“Lead the way.”

Randvi mentally catalogued the items Valka gave her. There were quite a few, and the bag felt bulky at her side. Randvi had never wanted to be a man, but it didn’t seem fair that the weight of her duty was measured in jars rather than the weight of an axe. Not quite as heavy as an axe, but not as easy to wield either. It was much easier to know if you'd done it wrong when the only direction was "Sharp part goes in the enemy."

And all this weight had to be carried beside mountains so similar to the mountains of her former home that the small differences disoriented her with the cold sting of a slap.

Eivor stopped in the middle of the path again, and held up a hand. “There’s something there.” she said gravely.

Her seriousness sent a chill of unease to Randvi's spine, “ A predator?”

“No. Something good. Or… interesting. I don’t know yet.”

“How do you know?”

“I just - “ Eivor paused, closed her eyes, exhaled through her teeth, and tilted her head as though she’d heard something. “This way - on foot.”

They tied up their horses and Randvi followed, bemused, expecting Eivor to explain more thoroughly at any moment. Every few steps Eivor would pause again to close her eyes and exhale, and walk further off path. She did not explain. Randvi followed, unquestioning, until they ended on the edge of a cliff beside a waterfall.

“It’s here… but below us. Can you climb?”

“Of course I can.”

Eivor looked at her skeptically, “If you fall it will be very bad for the alliance” Was she making a joke? “And my brother will likely never speak to me again. Which might actually be worse than war.” Yes. That was a joke. And Randvi was suddenly in no mood to appreciate it.

“Then, I suppose we’d better not risk it.” She said mildly, as a helpless outrage brewed in her. An entire life of training, and fighting, and sailing, and climbing had led her to become only this: A sheltered prize to be protected. What had it all been for, then? 

There was nothing to gain from telling Eivor of her adventurous past, and the instinct to do so was fed only by a selfish, impossible desire to be known by her. So they went around. Eivor led her down a gentler slope, always with one eye towards whatever prize there was beneath the cliff. Half way down along the waterfall, Eivor pointed, “that will be the quickest way in.” A narrow ledge jutted perilously from the gentle part of the slope along the sheer cliffside and disappeared behind the falls leading to whatever Eivor was looking for - just wide enough to sidle along. 

“Would you prefer to wait here?” Eivor said, unable to pull her attention away from her goal. 

“I think I can manage.” Randvi replied, “besides, now you’ve got me curious.” 

Eivor flinched and suddenly became (shockingly, even more) serious. “I’m not trying to drag you into danger.” She said, and Randvi felt another surge of helpless affection at the unintended double meaning.

“I don’t know if you can help it.” Randvi said, making an effort to sound more disgruntled than aroused.

Eivor didn’t question it, and without another word stepped from the slope and began inching her way along the ledge towards the fall. Randvi followed, closer and closer to the waterfall. Little shards of mist soaked her to the skin before she was even properly behind it but the swoop of danger heated her blood enough to keep her warm. She landed beside Eivor with a grin and surveyed their destination: a little room in the rock. It was too small to be a proper cave, but big enough for even Eivor to stand and walk a few paces in any direction without plunging into the waterfall. Someone had brought their things up here. A bag, a keepsake box, they even brought some grass and blankets to make a soft little bed, and - oh. Died there. There was a perfectly clean skeleton, leaning against the back wall as though they’d sat there to have a meal and never gotten up. A fully grown adult that nevertheless looked small without its flesh and clothing. “Why are we here?”

“To see what it is. Come on.”

Eivor tossed baskets and overturned blankets without seeming to notice where they landed. She was looking for something specific, but Randvi couldn’t imagine what. The place was interesting enough without any hidden treasures. Eivor let out a cry of delight. “Here it is!” and she held up the prize.

It was a pin, but one unlike any Randvi had seen before. A little round brooch - too small to be practical - made of gold, but you could barely see any gold for the mottled confusion of glittering jewels - all colors, various sizes.

Eivor presented it to her without ceremony. Like she was passing a piece of bread. “Yours, I think.” Randvi reached to take it, but stopped herself. She wanted it, yes, but it was too extravagant a gift to accept from - what - a friend? Gods, a _relative?_

“You found it Eivor. It’s yours by rights.”

“It’s not my style.” Eivor said flatly with the tiniest hint of a smile peeking at the corner of her lips. Randvi wished she would stop being so familiar with her and frowned against the twist of desire in her belly. She wanted Eivor to remain a stoic static image - distressing to think about, but immovable and unattainable. That perfectly distant warrior with an obsession with honor, and an ego big enough to keep Randvi out of her line of vision. “Really, I think you should have it.” 

Eivor took Randvi’s hand and closed it around the brooch. Her fingertips brushed the sensitive skin on her inner wrist and Randvi flinched as a shimmering warmth spread from the point of contact like a drop of pigment in water. Their eyes met, and Eivor’s sharp pale eyes looked troublingly soft and clouded. Her jaw clenched and unclenched. 

Randvi stepped back and made a show of inspecting the treasure, heart pounding. Upon inspection It really was a remarkable piece. It must have been a beloved prize won in a raid, or traded, perhaps it had passed many oceans, and many hands only to rest unnoticed forever guarded by a skeleton. Almost forever, until they found it by chance. Chance? Eivor was picking around the rest of the cave detritus but with no real intention - as though she knew Randvi held the only valuable thing in the cave. Suspicion whispered at Randvi’s shoulder. “How did you know this was here?” She asked casually.

“I have a good sense of direction.”

“That’s not what that means.” 

“I spend a lot of time outside, I’ve learned how to track things.” There was a defensive edge now, and Randvi had a thrilling, terrible thought.

“Did you... leave this here to give to me?” 

Eivor said nothing 

“Why? Why bring me here?” Randvi didn’t know what she hoped. 

“Do you want it or not?”

“No.”

Eivor scoffed and took the brooch from Randvi. She returned it to the box and closed the lid with concentrated gentleness that failed to hide a vibrating tension of frustration. Her fingers clenched the box as though to stop herself from speaking, but failed. “I would like to make you feel welcome.” she finally said, “I have done everything I could think of to help you, but try as I might, you take my every action and word as a personal affront.” Eivor rose, and that frustrated tension vibrated off of her in waves, and Randvi was suddenly reminded that she was not only a warrior, but one of the most ferocious drengr of the raven clan. Randvi’s flesh prickled with goosebumps and her heart pounded in her throat.

“I don’t expect you to immediately trust a clan that has warred against your brethren.” Eivor continued, “I don’t expect you to warm to us today or tomorrow, or in the next year. But I _cannot_ understand why you have chosen to single me out for your disdain.”

Eivor was only half a head taller than her, but with the power of her presence, she towered higher than her own height, and mountains over Randvi. This was a dangerous creature, and these narrow pale eyes were the last image dozens of warriors from Randvi’s clan had seen before they became Raven food.

“You are mistaken, drengr.” Randvi said steadily despite her pounding heart, “As your future queen I would never single out any one warrior.”

Eivor didn’t fall for the lie and made as much clear with a wry tilted smile “And yet that is exactly what you’ve done. If you think you can concentrate all the leftover rage from our clans’ aborted war, and give it to me to carry, know this: I have other wars to fight, Randvi Arnesdottir, I won’t waste energy absorbing your displaced hate.”

“I don’t hate you.” Randvi said, “I just don’t like to be around you”

To Randvi’s horror, Eivor’s expression blinked into what seemed to be genuine confusion and hurt. Randvi opened her mouth but all her carefully studied poise and diplomacy had abandoned her. When she could speak again all she could do was reiterate. “I don’t. I don’t hate you.”

A rough laugh burst forth from Eivor’s confusion fully formed. Randvi chuckled along, unsure what this laughter meant, and not feeling at all amused. She prayed silently that this small break in tension would be enough to keep her secrets in, even as she felt her desire bleeding out of her pores, surrounding them with every exhale. Eivor stopped laughing and took a recentering breath. She caught her gaze and must have seen something hungry in Randvi’s carefully still shoulders, because a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips as though pulled by the thread of that scar. It was not a comforting smile, only a little warmer than a sneer. A smile to seal the acknowledgement of a shared truth that wasn’t worth hiding anymore.

Eivor placed one hand on Randvi’s chest and steered her toward the cave wall. 

The other hand flashed to the back of her head serving to both hold Randvi wherever Eivor wanted and to protect her head from the rock as Eivor pressed her closer with her body. “I don’t like to be around you either” she said, low as the warning snarl of a wolf. Randvi pressed back - not to get away but to feel Eivor against her. To hold on to something. Her nails scraped against the treated leather of her bulky armor until she found a fastening strap at Eivor’s hip and held on tight. 

They were nose to nose now. Both struggling to breathe evenly. To maintain control of themselves. One final opportunity to stop and still truthfully say that nothing happened. 

But even as the thought crossed her mind, Randvi knew that threshold had passed unnoticed minutes before, with that ripple of sensation when they touched hands. Randvi had seen it in the joint of Eivor’s jaw, and if Eivor was any kind of observant, she must have seen it too.

Randvi gripped the strap tighter, nails digging into the leather until the nailbeds hurt, and without another thought, closed the distance between them.

The kiss was hard and slow. One kiss to memorize each other and maybe they could still pretend it hadn't happened. One hard press of the lips. A breath apart, eye contact - a silent question - but stepping away was no longer a plausible answer. One kiss turned to two, then three.

They breathed together, mouths opening together. Eivor’s hand moved from her sternum down to the small of her back as Randvi tasted the dregs of that sweetened tea on her tongue. The softness of Eivor’s lips was at odds with her calloused hands, with that scar at the corner a vibrant anomaly. Randvi brushed her lips gently against the ribbon of scar before kissing her hard and open and deep again. Eivor held her tighter by the waist and the back of the head, and pressed a thigh between Randvi’s legs. If Eivor’s palm had not prevented it, Randvi would have thrown her head back and likely concussed herself on the cave wall. Instead she took a sharp breath and drew back a tiny measure to look up into those ice green eyes. 

She twisted her hips into Eivor’s thigh, and her expression hardened with a clear, defiant command: “more.”

As though in compliance, the hand at the back of her head curled into a fist, gripping her hair and drawing her back into a kiss. The arm around her waist pulled her closer, sliding Randvi up her thigh until only her toes touched the ground. Randvi was sturdy herself. Not like Eivor, but certainly no anemic flower either. Yet here she was - like the weight was nothing - perched straddling Eivor’s thigh still holding tight to that hip-level strap with one hand, and Eivor’s shoulder with the other lest she dissolve out of Midgard. She wished desperately all the while that they could be closer. Closer. And closer. She continued to grind her hips against Eivor’s thigh, slow and deliberate, enjoying that Eivor seemed unable to help herself from rolling her hips into her as well. The fist in Randvi’s hair loosened with the rhythm of their kiss and they moved in perfect sync. 

The hand-stitched seam on Randvi’s leggings rolled over just the right spot and Randvi moaned into Eivor’s mouth, close to some revelation. At the sound Eivor abruptly drew away from the kiss and Randvi followed, barely registering that she was able to do so because the hand in her hair had released. The arm around her waist had gone too, and the thigh between her legs. Eivor took another step back, looking lost, and pained.

The rushing sound of the waterfall came roaring back so loudly that Randvi distantly wondered how she had forgotten it was there. And with it, the reality of their position crashed into her chest. Her mouth went dry and her heart pounded in her throat. “Eivor…” she said.

Eivor seemed not to hear her. She seemed to be running complex calculations in her head, and with every second she didn’t look at Randvi, her panic rose. Could they pretend after this? Did Randvi want to go back to pretending?

Finally Eivor met her gaze, eyes piercing and serious. “I didn’t plant the brooch here.” She said, and she led the way out of the cave leaving Randvi defeated and wet.

* * *

**Late Spring.** The night before Sigurd’s journey south.

> _Winter has peaked and gone since that frozen afternoon, and spring is on its way out. We haven’t spoken more than a few words to each other since, but that memory plays constantly. Even now when I should be wishing my husband a safe journey across the ocean instead I am remembering the thigh between my legs, the hand at the back of my neck, what might have happened if Eivor hadn’t stepped away, or if I had_

Randvi snapped her book closed. No more of that. She stood abruptly and stalked to her husband’s side, placing a hand on his shoulder until he stopped laughing. 

“Pardon the interruption.” 

Sigurd’s friends nodded respectfully and gave her silence to speak.

“You should have me now, Husband,” She said, for them all to hear. She pretended not to notice the circle of warriors tense and fiddle with their horns. She enjoyed the power over these powerful men. How easy it was. How silly. “before you leave. And maybe the gods will grant me a son to keep me company while you are away.” 

Sigurd’s eyes widened and he twisted from the bench to look up at her and take hold of one hip. 

“Yes...” he said wonderingly, and already she could tell that getting him stiff would be a trial hardly worth the effort. Anything to get Eivor off her mind. “Yes, my wife. I am your thrall.” He stood. Stumbled. Held her tightly by the waist, raised his drink horn to the stragglers and shouted “My wife!!” 

All five of them cheered lasciviously now that they’d been given permission, and Randvi led Sigurd away. Eivor watched them leave the hall from the main central door to the longhouse, eyes hooded and resigned, and Randvi pretended not to notice.

Back in their little home, Randvi stripped her clothes methodically. Folding as she went. She could take her time, though Sigurd seemed frantic to remove his, he was drunk enough - or excited enough - that his fingers kept fumbling with the fastenings of his clothes. It was a bit sweet and she felt a wash of warmth for him. She could try, couldn’t she? It would be so much easier if she could just want him.

“Let me.” She said softly. 

Sigurd looked at her, now in only her tunic, loose at the shoulders, and his eyes were terribly, heartbreakingly soft. As she unbuckled the last of his clothes he grazed his coarsely calloused fingers over her skin from jaw to shoulder, gently easing the strap off her shoulder and exposing her breast. He let out a deep admiring sigh and descended, pushing her back onto their bed and kissing her. She could feel the skin around her mouth scraping raw with the roughness of his skin.

He did everything right. He was careful, he was gentle. He wasn’t so drunk that he struggled to become hard as Randvi had feared, and he took her slowly, using fingers at first to prepare her, before slowly easing inside of her. He maintained steady, observant eye contact and moved slowly, taking all his cues from her. Until she grasped his hair and bit his lip, granting permission - demanding - passion alike. He matched her roughness, and with one hand firmly gripping her hip, and the other holding her tightly by the shoulder he fucked into her hard.

“I am so lucky,” Sigurd said in her ear, “You are so beautiful, Randvi, and brilliant. I am so lucky. I am so lucky.”

Randvi squeezed her eyes shut, trying to ignore how she hated his hot breath on her neck and shards of stubble against the sensitive skin behind her ear. She moved her hips with him, trying to find a spot of pleasure, chasing the revelation she had glimpsed behind the waterfall. There was some glimmer of something. Like when she touched herself. Some biologically inevitable whisper of pleasure. But though the movement was similar, and her body hadn’t changed, the spark of lightning never built up the way it had with - no. She buried her face in the crook of Sigurd’s shoulder and breathed in the overpowering smell of him. Nothing like her. 

After it was over, Randvi held her knees to her chest as Valka had instructed her, but already knew it wouldn’t take. In spite of her efforts there had been little pleasure on her end. She had a sudden vivid recollection of the steady strength of Eivor’s fingers in her hair, and arm around her waist. Her lips. The smell of her, the cool sweetness of her tongue. Randvi fell to her side, still curled up, frustrated tears forming in her eyes. Eivor’s hands were calloused too. She was strong too. So why did it feel so different? They had barely even touched each other. They had kept all their clothes on, and yet that one memory carried more energy (lust pooled in her throat, blood rushing to meet where Eivor’s thigh had wedged) than the memory of any of the dozens of times she had fucked the man sleeping contentedly beside her in the last few months.

Well, this time tomorrow night, Sigurd would be gone, and all she could do was hope it wouldn’t be such a long time that she was unable to keep herself distracted and her mind away from Eivor’s icy green eyes, and deadly hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> working titles:  
> \- Ok fine, I'll write it.  
> \- Area lesbians trip all over themselves  
> \- How many sexual innuendos can I shove into one chapter?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the Wolf clan steadily encroaching on Raven territory, Randvi is forced watch in amazement as Eivor - infuriated beyond all proportion - engages in increasingly reckless strikes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for needles in this one. Go to the footnotes to see what to skip.
> 
> Special thanks to adarbitrium for helping me wrap my head around what clan everyone is from.  
> Nothing saucy this chapter. Probably not in the next chapter either. I told you it was slow burn, bro! I warned you!

> _Sigurd has been gone for six months. I have learned my new community and settled easily into a leadership role even without my husband here to lend me authority by proximity. Any lingering resentments my fellow Ravens might have expressed over our clans’ long rivalry (and its anti-climactic end) have already disappeared even from intonation and innuendo._
> 
> _Gunnar has happily taken the role of guide now that Eivor has bowed out of the task. This wasn’t a formal dismissal on my part, or a resignation on hers, but given that she seems to struggle to look me in the eye these days, it seems a reasonable assumption that she has rescinded the offer she made on my wedding day._
> 
> _I like Gunnar. Upon first glance he cuts an intimidating figure, befitting a blacksmith - he’s the size of his forge, and all of his hair seems to have long ago migrated south from his head to his face - but he has kindness enough to fill his frame and a romantic soul that belies the deadly genius of his weapons. Gunnar also seems to take great pleasure filling me in on all the local gossip - sometimes decades old._
> 
> _Valka’s prediction that the current “spell” Eivor held over me would burn off with time has proven somewhat true… though I doubt that when Valka told me to “let it run its course” she meant “grind your sex against her thigh in a cave behind a waterfall.” Nevertheless, with a bittersweet dissolution, the painfully sharp burn I once felt for Eivor in the beginning has begun to fade into something I can live with._
> 
> _We have never alluded to what happened behind the falls. Indeed she seems reluctant to be in the same room as me. I don’t mind. There is nothing to discuss, and no time. While Styrbjorn manages the Raven clan as a whole, I have kept busy managing the needs of the people which are pressing, yet beneath the notice of a jarl. And Eivor is our protector._
> 
> _Meanwhile the Wolf Clan, led by Kjotve the Cruel has been steadily encroaching upon Raven territory. Perhaps spurred by the absence of Sigurd and his men. Like a child pinching his smaller brother to see how long it will take him to retaliate. This seems to infuriate Eivor beyond all proportion. However Styrbjorn has not taken the bait. In fact he seems hesitant to act at all without his son and all of his warriors. I would have us defend against attacks perhaps more aggressively than we have been, while avoiding all out war if possible - as we would be sure to lose. All I can do now is watch as the Jarl flounders, and our prized drengr engages in increasingly reckless strikes._

* * *

The first time Eivor snuck out was two months after Sigurd left. 

On the pretense of a hunting trip, she brought two warriors. Sunniva might have been good to have on a summer deer hunt - quiet, good with a bow, often a scout - but Dag would be worse than useless - big as a house, heavy as a bear, stealthy as the hammer Randvi carried on her hip. Eivor told Styrbjorn that they intended to hunt for a week and would bring back enough deer for the midsummer feast.

It was such an obvious lie that when Styrbjorn approved the proposal with no further questions Randvi thought she had slipped into another realm.

Eivor returned, laden with the requisite bounty of trophies, only a day late. Though Randvi noticed that Dag was even more grumpy than usual, babying his left arm, and Sunniva had a slight limp that lasted a week.

The second time was in the middle of that winter. One morning Eivor was simply gone without a word. She didn’t return for three days, and when she did return it was with a fresh black eye, and a look of grim determination both adorning her face.

The third time was spring. Nearly a full year after Sigurd left on his journey. She left with no explanation but did not strive to hide her leaving.

When asked, Styrbjorn told Randvi that the Wolf Kissed left Fornburg most early springs to “Stretch her legs in the first warmth.”

Styrbjorn might have thought nothing of it, but Randvi was suspicious. That evening she found Sunniva - the scout that had accompanied Eivor on her “hunting trip” the previous summer - and caught her when she was alone, seated on a stump near the shooting range and sharpening arrow points.

“Do you know what Eivor is planning?” 

Sunniva didn’t even look up from her task and chuckled, “Hello Randvi. Why yes I am doing well.” Randvi took a seat on the ground next to her and settled in to wait. Sunniva paused in her sharpening and eyed Randvi, “Why do you want to know?”

“I don’t like feeling left out.” Randvi said, glibly.

Sunniva went back to sharpening the arrow point. Her movements slow and deliberate. “Are you going to try to stop her?”

“How can I if I don’t know what she’s doing?”

Sunniva held up the arrowhead and tested its point on her thumbnail. Randvi sighed.

“Probably not. But I need to have all the information to know how to act.”

Sunniva bit her lip, considering, before finally saying. “She heard about a group of bandits - supposedly acting on their own - destabilizing communities on our western borders. She thinks it’s at Kjotve’s request - it’s too close to his territories for him not to notice. She invited me along but after last time... my skills are best applied as a scout.”

“And I suppose she intends to scout herself and report back without engaging?” Randvi had no real hope that this might be the case.

Sunniva laughed outright and shook her head.

Randvi took a deep breath. It was not a bad thing for Eivor to investigate, but to do so alone, on little more than a suspicion… it was idiotic. If only she’d known about this group of bandits before Eivor. She might have convinced the Jarl to investigate before Eivor felt the need to take it upon herself. “Does Styrbjorn have any assignments for you right now?”

“Not at the moment.”

“If you were to scout for me, who else would you trust to scout with you?”

“Norvid” Sunniva said without hesitation. Norvid was an odd little man, as loud and enthusiastic as they come. A little _argr_ to be completely honest, but she would never _ever_ say so aloud.

“Norvid? Not exactly someone you’d want in a fight.”

Sunniva laughed, “Never _have_ to fight if you don’t get caught. There are times _I_ even lose track of him. And when he is caught he is _always_ able to talk his way out.”

“Perfect. I might have some tasks for you.”

Sunnuva held up a hand. “I can track her, but I don’t like spying on one of our own without her knowledge.” 

“I don’t mind if she knows.” In fact, Randvi liked that. Let Eivor know she was watching her. “In any case, the work I have for you is more than just spying on one unruly warrior.” It was too late to follow her for today, anyway. “My husband should be returning… any day now. That is, any day between now and 2 years from now. I would like to be the first to know. Second to know, after you and Norvid. If you need any other scouts, I’ll see to it that you get them. But if I am pleased with your work, then you will be in charge of my scouts, Sunniva. From now on.”

Sunniva nodded politely then jolted as she realized what that truly meant coming from the future queen of the clan. “I don’t know what to say. This is a great honor. Thank you. Randvi.”

“Thank you for telling me the truth.”

* * *

Eivor was gone for three days, and came back on a crisp morning just after sunrise. She seemed pleased with herself, and completely unharmed. But that didn’t change the fact that the trip had been reckless and dangerous, and seeing Eivor greet her neighbors with such easy nonchalance, Randvi flushed with an anger that surprised even herself.

That afternoon Randvi sought Eivor out on purpose for the first time in a year and found her gathering herbs at the outskirts of town in an airy tunic and trousers. An odd thing for a warrior to do, but Randvi was no longer surprised by the activities that occupied Eivor. Eivor was never above helping anyone around Fornburg - or out in the world. Even if that help meant tedious or undignified tasks. Randvi felt the glow of affection under her ribs swell against her will.

“Where did you go?”

Eivor looked up and visibly darkened “It doesn’t concern you.” she said, and turned back to gathering to end the conversation.

“It does concern me.” Randvi insisted, hating the fear that crept into her voice, “You are our protector. If you are gone, we need at least five more warriors on alert ready to protect us at a moment’s notice.”

Eivor brushed her hands and stood up, looking down at Randvi. Again that presence of hers made her appear so much taller, so much bigger, than she really was. Like someone was standing over her shoulder and casting light rather than shadow. “You flatter me.” she said with - what was that? Condescension? Disdain? Randvi couldn’t control the stab of heat down from her belly, but she certainly would not be cowed.

“If I could avoid doing so, I would.” she said through her teeth, “Did you find what you were looking for? Were you seen?”

“The men I wanted dead are dead. And I am alive. So far am I successful.”

“Very well. In the future, do tell your Jarl - tell him the _truth_ about where you’re going.” Randvi said, hoping she sounded more authoritative than she felt, “So we’re not left unawares.”

“Or? You’ll send Sunniva to spy on me?”

“Yes. And I won’t regret it.”

Eivor continued to gaze down at her impassively with those sharp narrow eyes. “Styrbjorn does not see the gravity of the situation. Kjotve nips at our borders like he’s playing a game. A wolf cub is small and soft but one mustn’t forget how his teeth will grow. if Styrbjorn has somehow been lulled into believing that Kjotve is less of a threat than he is then it falls to me to take the necessary action.”

“He is your king. If you have information, or a _plan_ rather than foolishly running off because you think you know better -”

“He has no plan. I am the only one to whom Kjotve may fall. I am bound by fate to decapitate the beast of -”

“Stop it. No. No more poetry. You can’t just -”

Eivor bent to Randvi’s level and lowered her voice to a growl unlike any Randvi had heard since the cave, “This is what I must do, Randvi.” Randvi shuddered. “Now. If you’ll excuse me.” Eivor straightened up with a crooked smile, and gestured to the festive bundle of herbs in her pouch, “Tekla needs these.” and she turned to walk back to town.

“Eivor -”

“My apologies, I’ll have to leave you unsatisfied this time.” 

Randvi fumed. Outrage incinerating any possible replies. How could Eivor speak so blithely about putting her life at unnecessary risk? “Eivor -”

“I’ll tell Tekla you say hello.” Eivor called over her shoulder and was gone.

* * *

Unsure who else to vent to, Randvi turned to Gunnar.

She sat out of the way in one corner of his shop like she usually did on afternoons when the forge wasn’t lit, keeping her hands busy with whatever little task he assigned her (today she was sorting a selection of leather strops). He worked organizing his wares, and listened quietly as she explained - as calmly as she could muster - how Eivor was sneaking out to fight an absurd, poorly devised, and outrageously dangerous one-woman war against Kjotve and the entire Wolf clan. 

“I want to tell Styrbjorn. But I’m not interested in making an enemy of her”

“Oh I’m sure he already knows.” Gunnar laughed

“Oh.” Of course. If Randvi had an eye on everything happening in their clan, Styrbjorn was certainly capable of doing the same. As Randvi had two spies, Stybjorn likely had a dozen. She felt a bit stupid for not considering this angle.

“Better for him if he pretends he doesn’t know.” Gunnar carried on, “At least for now. At least while she’s keeping it away from Kjotve directly.”

“I had assumed he would stop her if he knew. But I suppose if she’s getting results…” And if she got hurt? Surely he cared. But he was a king, and she was his warrior. Almost his child. Almost a prince in her own right, but not quite. And she was pledged to die for him. Of course he cared, but he wasn’t going to worry for her the way Randvi did. Meanwhile Randvi was worrying for her like a lover would. And she had no rights to that either.

She set her work aside, face hot at this unfortunate personal revelation. “Is she always like this?”

“Well, it’s Kjotve. You’ll drive yourself mad expecting a warrior to behave rationally when a matter of honor is at stake.”

“What does Kjotve have to do with her?

Gunnar brightened and set aside his work, “Ahhh. Sometimes I forget you haven’t heard all the stories.” 

Randvi doubted that. Gunnar loved to tell her the stories she didn’t know. “Go on then.”

“16 winters ago, when the Wolf-Kissed was but a bear cub, her father, Varin - Jarl of the Bear clan - initiated an auspicious pledge of treaty with King Styrbjorn. Styrbjorn and young Sigurd payed a personal visit and the two clans seemed destined to share a long friendship 

“The mead flowed, songs rang out, and all the warriors were drunk and full of good food and friendship. But just as the celebration reached its height, none other than Kjotve the Cruel struck with full force. There was chaos and blood - the clan was caught unprepared. Kjotve’s cowardly attack was a swift and decisive victory, and within minutes he held Varin Jarl by a knife to the throat.” Gunnar helpfully illuminated the story by holding one of his own knives to his own throat. Lovely.

“Kjotve gave him the choice: Varin’s life given willingly - axe on the ground - and he swore he would spare the rest of the Bear clan’s lives. Or Varin could fight, keep his honor, but his entire clan would die. So Varin laid down his axe and bared his throat for the sacrifice.

“But before his blood had even warmed the snow, the oathbreaker Kjotve ordered his warriors to attack anyway - denying Varin Valhalla, and slaughtering every last member of the Bear clan.

“Only Eivor escaped - rescued by _your very own Sigurd_ -” Randvi didn’t appreciate the teasing insinuation but let it slide, “Sigurd must have been… 15 then? He picked Eivor up and away they rode on a black horse faster than Sleipnir - spurred faster yet by near death. With his slaughter a success, Kjotve has taken over all of the former Bear clan’s territory, and leftEivor’s childhood home to fester in disrepair.”

Randvi took a deep breath and rubbed her eyes, “No wonder.” She said, “Now _I_ want to kill him too.”

“Oh but that’s not all. That terrible night was not done leaving its mark on her.”

“You’re not serious.”

“The strangest sagas are true. Because just when Sigurd and Eivor should have been safe, their horse slipped on the trail. Sigurd only just managed to grasp a branch and stay above, but the poor horse and Eivor plummeted down onto a lake - barely frozen in the warmth of an early spring thaw. Little Eivor was small enough, but the weight of the horse cracked the ice and pulled him under, leaving fissures all the way to the shore, and Eivor on precariously cracked ice. She might have made it without further incident when -”

“By the gods there’s _more?”_

“ _She might have made it to the shore without further incident_ when a pack of hungry wolves - perhaps scenting a creature small and alone - perhaps thinking her weak - attacked her on the ice.”

Those scars on her throat. Randvi unconsciously touched her own throat on the spot where Eivor’s flesh was mottled like trampled snow. She must have been nearly devoured. Randvi had never imagined those scars could have happened when she was so young.

“How did she survive?”

“Ah,” Gunnar seemed delighted by the question, “the wolves were mistaken. For you see, young Eivor may have been small, but she was not alone, for Odin himself was beside her, and just as the largest wolf had taken Eivor’s throat in his jaws, the sky blackened with a flurry of wings, and an entire flock of ravens, descended with knife-sharp beaks and claws, and ripped the wolves to shreds, allowing Eivor to escape safely to the shore.”

A cloud of Ravens killing a pack of wolves was a beautiful image for a saga, but didn’t seem possible in real life.

“How did she survive, though? What _really_ happened?”

Gunnar instantly deflated from his saga-telling-stance, “That is what really happened.”

Randvi folded her arms, waiting, 

“I swear! Sigurd saw it all. I could have said the ravens lifted her into the air and flew her to the shore, but that would have been an exaggeration. Everything else is true.”

Randvi narrowed her eyes and went back to her task, and made a mental note to ask Sigurd when he returned. 

If he ever returned.

* * *

The next time Eivor snuck away, she didn’t do so alone. She and half a dozen warriors snuck away one at a time starting around noon. It was well orchestrated, but Randvi wasn’t fooled. Sunniva and Norvid followed behind.

The warriors returned late at night after most everyone else had gone to sleep. Randvi had decided to stay awake for no particular reason, warming herself in front of a cozy firepit a few steps in front of the house she shared with Sigurd when he was in Norway. The fire had burned down to embers when she saw them straggle home, smelling of blood and sweat, and no longer bothering to be stealthy about it. By now their lovers and families would have noticed their absence. They looked exhausted, but at least they had all returned. Most of them. Eivor was still noticeably absent. In a daze, Randvi doused and packed the last of the embers and went into her house unwilling to hear bad news until the morning.

She drank some hot tea, undressed to her shift, and was just about to get under the furs and pretend to herself that she might sleep when there was a quiet knock on her door. Her heart lurched. She didn’t want to find out like this. She took her time getting out of bed and wrapping a shawl around her shoulders. As though whomever was outside her door might disappear into mist if she held off long enough, taking their tragedy with them.

Instead of Sunniva or Norvid with downcast eyes bearing news of Eivor’s death, Randvi was greeted by Eivor herself, leaning heavily on the door jamb with a nonchalance that was not quite as easy as it usually was. She had bandages skillfully wrapped over her chest, fresh blood wicking quickly across the fabric. That was going to need stitches.

“I can’t see to do it myself.” Eivor said instead of a greeting. Her voice was thick and gruff, “The angle is… Will you help me?” She looked pained. Whether from the injury, or from having to ask for help, Randvi couldn’t tell. 

Without a word Randvi stepped aside to let her into the house. As she gathered the bandage, needle and gut thread she would need she heard Eivor sit heavily on the bed Randvi theoretically shared with Sigurd. 

“I wouldn’t ask, but I can’t let Styrbjorn Jarl find out where I was and -“

“And you know I can keep a secret.” Randvi glanced over her shoulder in time to catch Eivor tense at the unintended implication, and begin pawing at her wound dressing. Her shaking hands were the only clue to give the severity of the injury away.

“Let me do that.” Randvi placed a stool with a lamp in front of Eivor so she could see what she was doing. She stood over the warrior and placed a bracing knee on the bed beside Eivor’s hip, and placed the needle and thread to the other side. She gently peeled Eivor’s hands away from where they were still fiddling with the bandage - placed those aside as well - and took their place. She removed the bandage to reveal a horrible oozing gash stretching unevenly from sternum to left shoulder. Randvi clenched her jaw.

“A little slower on this dodge and you wouldn’t be here asking for stitches.” she said steadily.

“You look angry.”

Randvi met her gaze, stone-faced, and raised a single eyebrow. 

“... you _are_ angry.”

“Yes Eivor. I am angry.” And with that she set to work threading the needle, and placing it over a candle flame. She wiped away what blood she could, but fresh blood rolled out, sparkling in the candlelight, almost immediately. Within seconds, Randvi’s fingers were slick with Eivor’s blood. She took as firm a grasp as she could on the slippery skin and began with one thrust of the needle.

Eivor didn’t flinch when the needle pierced her skin. Merely pursed her lips and inclined her head as though to say ‘hm. Yes. That certainly is a needle in my skin there.’ But she closed her eyes and swallowed at the odd sensation as the slick thread slid through and tightened together the two ends of her torn flesh.

Yes. Randvi was angry. In fact, she realized she had been angry since the waterfall. Angry at Eivor for her impeccable restraint and loyalty, angry at herself for wanting her so badly, angry at their fates for placing so many barriers between them. Angry at Eivor again for trying so hard to get herself killed.

They were silent for a time as Randvi stitched and wiped away blood. Stitch. Pull. Wipe. She could feel Eivor’s heart just below her hands, beating as though she was still in the throes of battle. “Gunnar told me.” Randvi broke the silence. A gentle slide of thread through the skin. “Why this matters to you so much.”

Eivor tilted her face away and said nothing.

Another thrust of the needle. “But you will accomplish nothing, and we will all be the worse for it if you wind up dead.”

Eivor seemed to consider her words. Randvi couldn’t hope to control her, but she could make her listen. Another silent stitch. Eivor took a deep breath and continued to avoid Randvi’s face. “My life is forfeit until I do this.” She said simply.

“What?” Randvi paused in her work, puzzled.

“I am an undead warrior. I am draugr. Until I fill in this pit in the foundation of my being with the body of Kjotve the Cruel. No accomplishment, no battle won will fill it until this is done. I _can’t_ live. After... _then_ I may build a life. Then I may have my own needs. My own desires. Nothing matters until I have killed him.”

“And if you die in that pursuit?” 

Eivor took a deep breath and gazed at the axe leaning on the entry door. Her fingers twitched. “If I die in pursuit, then my family’s honor is restored. I will go to Valhalla and present my father’s axe to the All Father and feast until I fight again.”

Randvi gritted her teeth. Yes this woman could kill her with barely a thought, but with her other hand still holding the string of gut threaded through Eivor’s flesh, Randvi had little to fear as she took a hard grip of Eivor’s jaw and forced her to meet her eyes. 

“Look around you Eivor.” She said through gritted teeth, “You are a leader now. How dare you say what you do here counts for nothing. You don’t have the luxury to be so reckless. You have to live for your clan. For your family. For the children who look up to you and the rest of us who rely on you to protect our people. How dare you place your honor in a place of higher importance than the well being of the clan. Oh if you die, you will certainly restore that honor. You will certainly go to Valhalla. And I and the rest of our clan will follow shortly after. And we will find you seated beside Odin in his great hall. And spit at your feet.”

Eivor frowned. 

Randvi released her grip on her jaw, leaving little streaks of Eivor’s blood where her fingertips touched. Untethered, Eivor held her gaze and Randvi softened, placing a gentle palm on the warrior’s unscarred right cheek.

“Do you not wonder why a dozen of our warriors will follow you unquestioning into uncertain battle? Let our admiration be all the honor you require for now.” Randvi said, casting a seidr within the request, “Be safe for a little longer. The gods will understand.”

Eivor leaned her cheek into Randvi’s palm and closed her eyes. When they opened again Randvi recognized the desire for her she’d seen in the cave. Only now it was doused in a sadness Randvi could nearly taste. She swallowed away the taste and turned her attention back to the final stitches. She knotted the thread and dressed the wound, spreading a thick ointment she’d had from Valka some weeks ago, before wrapping the fresh bandage. She tied it off and stood up, gratified to see that the blood did not spread and her work was good. Eivor did not look away from her face all the while.

“Gather your strength and leave when you’re ready.” Randvi said, “you won’t be in my way.”

Eivor didn’t take any time to stand. She nodded a silent thank you and headed towards the threshold. She picked up her axe.

A pause. A thought. “I will be more careful.” She said to the door jamb. 

Randvi believed she meant it, but didn’t believe she would.

* * *

To Randvi’s surprise, Eivor did not sneak away without consulting Styrbjorn. Instead she consulted Styrbjorn, and then snuck away.

She knelt before Styrbjorn’s throne one evening in ostentatious supplication. Randvi sat unheeded at a table by the entrance to the longhouse aghast as Eivor requested two ships, 30 warriors, to take straight into the heart of Kjotve’s stronghold of Hoettstrand off the coast of Haervik.

“Under my command I know we will achieve victory.”

It was arrogant even by Eivor’s usual standards. And Styrbjorn predictably declined to even entertain her plan of attack.

“I do not wish to openly antagonize the Wolf Clan without my son present. And I have reason to believe Sigurd will be here in a month, or less.”

Randvi leaned forward - this was new information for her as well. Sigurd returning? It had been nearly two years. She’d heard so little from him other than sporadic letters made up of generic greetings buried beneath wonder and excitement at the places he’d seen and people he’d met and she’d heard nothing about his return. Randvi had hardly thought of Sigurd at all, and was suddenly surprised to find herself excited at the prospect of seeing him again and hearing about his travels.

“ _Then_ we may solve the problem of Kjotve with decisive finality.” Styrbjorn continued, “Until then, there is much use for your skills here in Fornburg. I forbid you to carry out this plan, and I forbid you from leaving Fornburg without explicit permission until Sigurd’s return.”

Randvi gritted her teeth to stop herself from screaming in frustration. The proposal had been ridiculous but this meant that Eivor would simply run off and do the raid on her own with perhaps one ship, and at most half as many men. Did he really mean to try to keep her here this time?

Styrbjorn dismissed Eivor, and Randvi slipped out of the longhouse, hoping to avoid seeing her before she inevitably snuck away. She was sick of scolding her, and terrified of being right one of these days. She’d made it maybe a few steps when a hand took a strong hold of her elbow, halting her in the shadow of the longhouse. 

“I know what you’re thinking.” Eivor said quietly.

“You were given explicit instruction this time, Eivor.” Randvi said, matching her low tones, “If you leave, Styrbjorn cannot pretend he doesn’t know what you’re planning. _Hoettstrand?_ This isn’t another bandit camp with possible loose ties to the wolf clan, Eivor. This is -”

“I know. I know.” Eivor let go of Randvi’s elbow and searched for words in the air around them, “I _did_ think about what you said. I know you think me selfish. But I’ve realized that you’re right. I _am_ the clan’s protector, and this is what I must do to protect the clan. Kjotve cannot go unchallenged.”

This was not what she hoped Eivor’s takeaway would be from their previous conversation. “If you die I’ll…” but there was nothing she could say that was a powerful enough threat. “I’ll put you out of my mind forever. I’ll never speak of you again and I’ll sew up the mouth of any skald who dares speak your name.”

Eivor smiled and tilted her face downward. Close enough to feel her breath. Randvi wished she wouldn’t. Randvi wished she could kiss her again. “Good.” Eivor said, only just loud enough for Randvi alone.

Randvi took a step back, and shook her head. Enough worrying like a lover, with none of the benefits. Eivor was being stupid, yes, but if she could think of her as any other warrior, as a friend, maybe Randvi could finally sleep better. 

Randvi took a deep breath and offered her arm in a brotherly shake, which Eivor accepted with a wry smile. A truce.

“Just see to it that I don’t have to. You know my stitches are good, but a skald will never keep his mouth still long enough for me to finish.”

Eivor let out a shout of relieved laughter, “Everything that’s ever tried to kill me up to now has failed.” she said, “You’ll never lose me for good. Maybe for a few unfortunate months but never for good.”

Randvi gripped her forearm tighter “See it’s that conviction of your immortality that concerns me.” she hissed.

“I won’t need to be immortal if my raid goes according to plan” Eivor said, matching Randvi’s tightened grip. 

Thumb in the bend of Randvi’s elbow, long fingers fanned to encircle the flesh. Her forearm taut and strong in Randvi’s grip. 

Randvi forced a dry “ha” and extricated her arm from the friendly warriors’ handshake, “And if it doesn’t go according to plan…well, I won’t say I told you so. But I’ll think it. Loudly” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The needle part starts where someone says "that's going to need stitches" and ends at the following dividing line.  
> You will have missed Randvi giving Eivor stitches and taking the opportunity to force her to listen as she explains that Eivor's whole honor thing is pretty selfish now that she's a leader.
> 
> Working titles for chapter 2:  
> \- Area lesbian surprisingly homophobic  
> \- Randvi friendzones herself
> 
> If you enjoyed this chapter please drop me a line and let me know! If you hated this chapter, share it with an enemy! See you in a week or so!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Eivor returns from a botched raid, and Sigurd from his victorious journey, the world seems to change all at once.
> 
> \- or - And then they went to England.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I borrow a lot from the game script here, but I changed quite a bit too. My goal here is for you to go "I think that's how that went..." while hopefully creating new context to existing dialogue. This is a balance I'm still finding.
> 
> No CW's I don't think. Unless you need a CW for awkward conversations going off the rails.

> _Gunnar has fallen in love with a traveling merchant. She seems lovely but I don’t see the relationship lasting beyond the week she’s planned to be here. The truest love, he assures me, can overcome any obstacle. I wonder how his love will overcome the need for a traveling merchant to travel, and the weight of a blacksmith’s forge._
> 
> _In other news, it has been nearly a month and Eivor has not yet returned from her raid. I keep thinking of her final words to me. “You’ll never lose me for good,” is a very clever way of saying “I’ll see you in Valhalla.” Fucker._
> 
> _As Hoettstrand is located deep in Wolf clan territory which is, in turn, entirely surrounded by water, Sunniva has been unable to safely tail the raid for a week, but the last she’s heard is that Eivor and the crew were captured._
> 
> _I suspect._
> 
> _The raid._
> 
> _Might not._
> 
> _have gone according to plan._
> 
> _I told her it wouldn’t. There’s nothing to be done about it, and if Eivor dies, she dies. There are other warriors. I am indifferent. I barely think of her. I haven’t dreamt of her in days. My only concern is how this might affect the war, but Norvid has returned from the south, which means that Sigurd will be home soon, and with him his warriors, and our chance at success against Kjotve._
> 
> _Perhaps in the meantime - before we are forced to contend with his sister’s actions - Sigurd can help me manage his father. As it stands, if Eivor has not died, our wise Jarl Styrbjorn might well make her wish she had._

* * *

When King Harald’s envoy arrived from the north It was the first morning since Eivor disappeared that Styrbjorn hadn’t flown into a rage. The extent of Eivor’s disobedience hadn’t become apparent until the afternoon after she left. But when all became clear, Styrbjorn was spitting mad. 

“I’ve had enough of her insolence!” He railed, “does she think I don’t know about all her other excursions - When she comes back… Randvi!”

“My lord?”

“Did you know about this?”

“She never told me she planned to leave.” Randvi had said. It wasn’t a lie, but Styrbjorn regarded her with narrowed eyes, perhaps sensing the veiled truth. “Respectfully, my lord, Eivor will not die without dragging at least a dozen of Kjotve’s best with her to Valhalla. The force of her axe was always destined to contribute to the push against Kjotve. Perhaps it is not the worst possible outcome for her to kill as many of his men as she can now, rather than keeping her back until the end? Perhaps once war truly escalates - if indeed her actions lead to an escalation - we will encounter an enemy already exhausted by the pecking of our most ferocious raven.”

“How many will have to die before her _honor_ is satisfied.”

“My lord,” Randvi counseled - as though he had actually been asking her a question, “I believe her actions - misguided though they may be - are intended to prevent further death at the hands of the Wolf clan.”

A version of this conversation happened nearly every day. He seemed exhausted. Randvi certainly was. And as the days dragged into weeks, and Eivor’s death became more self-evident the rages became more ferocious, and more unrelated to her fate.

He found something wrong with his food at every meal. He pronounced judgements so harsh the people of Thornburg chose instead to settle their differences amongst themselves - or if they could not, Randvi stepped in and quietly made “unofficial” judgements of her own. Randvi was almost grateful to manage him, as it gave her something to do other than contemplate when she should begin mourning.

A strange transformation began to take place within Randvi. Her task to calm and placate Styrbjorn’s rages put her - by necessity - at odds with his view of things, and often required her to take Eivor’s side. Soon she was seeing things nearly from her perspective and - annoyingly - gaining some sympathy for her actions. Not so much sympathy as to excuse her, or forgive her outright, but enough that piling her own anger on top of Styrbjorn’s no longer seemed useful. And in that, Randvi found an odd peace in Eivor’s memory: that stupid, beautiful creature she’d kissed behind a waterfall once, and would see in Valhalla once again. So she let Styrbjorn rage.

Only once, seated on the throne with his head perched on his fingertips, and gazing out at the longhouse did Styrbjorn take a break from his anger. Randvi heard him whisper “Oh Eivor. Eivor.” And saw her own stilted grief reflected in the mighty king’s eyes.

But now, in the presence of Harald’s envoy, Styrbjorn was again the man Randvi had met the day before her wedding. Calm, and rational, if a little tired. The talks had hardly gotten past the niceties when Sunniva appeared out of nowhere at her shoulder, leaned close and whispered “Eivor is alive. Her ship approaches.” Randvi’s heart lurched and the blood pounded in her ears. She stood so abruptly she smashed the back of her calves against the heavy long bench and felt it teeter dangerously behind her. Styrbjorn glared, and the messenger jumped as though only just realizing she was in the room. 

“Please, pardon the interruption.” Randvi said, hating how breathless she sounded. “I must - please carry on. My sincerest apologies.” And she stalked out of the longhouse, closing the enormous doors behind her.

Randvi stood at the edge of the dock until she saw it on the horizon, barely visible against the rising sun, but there it was - Eivor’s ship. She took such a sharp intake of breath that her throat caught in a sputtering cough. Her heart thundered. She didn’t want to be there. She didn’t want to be seen waiting pathetically right at the edge. But she had to see Eivor. She paced up and down the dock a few times, as the ship approached, before she finally settled on a position where she could pretend (badly) to inspect a rack of shields as the ship groaned and swept gently to a stop.

Behind her, she heard as Eivor vaulted out of the ship and thundered directly to her position. She turned, hands on her hips and a careless smile plastered on her face.

“Well well! The Feeder of ravens returns. And not half dead.” Her heart pounded; she hoped she wasn’t laying the indifference on too thick. “We thought we had lost you. For good this time.” Randvi offered an unsteady arm for that friendly handshake of comradery that she would offer any warrior, or friend, or friend who is a warrior.

They shook arms “A warm welcome as always, Randvi.” Randvi thought of all the times she had scolded and admonished her and couldn’t help but smile at the dig. She took a good look at Eivor. Her hair was a mess, barely sticking in its braids with the help of a bloody salt water paste. She had unusual bruises, rope burns on her wrists, she looked like she’d been kicked in the mouth.

“You look like reddened shit. What happened?”

“Nothing to crow about, except to say the men who delayed us are dead.” It sounded an awful lot like crowing to Randvi. But then Eivor softened, and looked at her, and lowered her voice to ask, “And how are you?” 

No.

“I’ve been well enough!” Randvi said briskly, absolutely refusing to match or acknowledge that softness, “Though I have spent many tiresome days calming the rages of our king.” She put her hands on her hips again, “He is not happy with you.” 

“I expected as much.” Eivor said with a grin.

It was odd. Eivor had nearly died, had nearly gotten her entire crew killed. She’d been tied up and beaten. She had not succeeded in killing her target. By all accounts this had been her least successful raid of all her ill advised excursions over the last two years, but she seemed exhilarated. There was a dark manic energy to her, like something had unlocked within her. Like she was finally sliding down a mountain after climbing for years, and nothing could stop the trajectory now. And like she thought that was a good thing.

“And what of Sigurd? Has he returned from his raids?”

Randvi’s shoulders dropped. “My husband should be home today. The last we heard he was approaching Stavanger.”

“Good to hear.”

Just then, as if waiting for the right moment, Dag ambled past, hefting his share of the loot from the raids “Sigurd will not save you from his father’s wrath, Eivor,” he said in a sing-song voice. Considering how long they had been delayed, Randvi wasn’t surprised at his irritation. She wondered why he went at all after his injury on their “hunting trip.” But then, his box of spoils might have been reason enough.

“Did your raid not go as planned?” Randvi asked, hoping the unsaid ‘I told you so’ soaked into her words enough to be heard. 

“They rarely go as planned, but I don’t regret it.” Eivor said, suddenly deathly serious. “Look.” she pulled out an old axe. Well made, but in disgraceful disrepair, “My father’s axe among the dead.”

Randvi gasped, “after so many years.” Kjotve had kept it for so long. Not to use or even display as one might any other trophy, but to allow to go dull. To purposefully waste. Such a petty cruelty. “You should take it to Gunnar.” Randvi said, “He will give it back its edge.”

“A good idea. After I see our king.” Eivor began to step with purpose towards the longhouse, and Randvi stepped in front of her.

“That I do not advise. Not yet. He is meeting with a messenger from the North.” Randvi hoped the messenger would stay for a long time. If only to put off the inevitably explosive confrontation between Eivor and Styrbjorn.

“I can wait.” Eivor said, looking out over the mountains with a frown. There was something she wasn’t saying. She was still and distant, but buzzing like the hour before an electrical storm.

“A cloud hangs over you. Eivor, did something happen?”

“Seeing my father’s axe after 17 winters… it stirred something in me. A feeling I have not had since… since the day he was killed. Since the day I got this.” She bared her throat to expose the mottled scar. The day the wolves attacked her on the ice, which she only landed on because she was fleeing from an attack. The attack wherein her father died in shame by laying down the very axe she held.

“Memories of past agonies can have such an affect.”

Eivor didn’t disagree, but her face remained clouded and confused. “I should speak with Valka. She could help me make sense of my… my feelings.” 

Valka? Randvi was now certain Eivor was keeping something back. Randvi had the impulse to touch her. She didn’t know if she wanted to shake her or hug her or kiss her. She was alive. Gods, she was alive! Instead she said a crisp, “take your time getting settled. I will see you at the longhouse.” And she turned to take a seat by the longhouse door - without looking back at Eivor even once. Her heart wouldn’t calm down, but there were other important things to occupy her mind for now. Like that Messenger from the north.

It would be impossible to rejoin the talks. The envoy didn't seem to like that she was there in the first place once he noticed her. So she sat by the door to sharpen a knife and eavesdrop. 

It seemed that the messenger - King Harald’s Uncle, Guthorm - was there to negotiate a merge of the Raven clan with the rest of Norway under the banner of King Harald. Styrbjorn was not only entertaining the prospect of bending the knee to another king even younger than his own son, but was actively discussing terms. Sigurd was not going to like this. What did this mean for the raven clan? What did this mean for her? What new political landscape would she have to learn to navigate in a unified Norway? She knew she should feel afraid, or at least a little daunted, but she wasn’t. Eivor was alive, the world was changing, and it was all just… exciting. 

When Eivor returned from seeing Valka a few hours later, she seemed composed as ever, “ready to face the thunder” as she put it. But she seemed distracted; the cloud over her had not lifted at all, and the confident posturing seemed to sit on her shoulders less comfortably than usual. Eivor strode into the longhouse to speak to Styrbjorn and Randvi listened from the door as Eivor actually had the gall to admonish the king for his poor judgement, scraping just shy of accusing him of outright cowardice. Well. That was certainly one way to deal with the situation: escalation.

Stybjorn had been so angry for the last month that Randvi was braced for the worst. But as he spoke to Eivor now, all the fight seemed drained out of him. He suddenly seemed pained by leadership responsibilities, and burdened by love for his adopted child.

While Eivor was burdened only by what she perceived as her father’s cowardly death. “My honor has been stained.” Randvi heard her say, “Until it’s wiped clean I want nothing else.”

Just then Norvid appeared at Randvi’s side and whispered frantically, “Sigurd’s here. The ship is about to dock!”

“Why didn’t you tell me as soon as the ship was in sight?” Randvi whispered back, “Well go on! Sound the horn!”

She ran into the longhouse to interrupt the audience. “Sigurd has come! Down at the docks -” And Eivor was already off running at full sprint.

Sigurd stepped onto the dock in triumph, to a chorus of voices welcoming him home. By the time Randvi wandered up, he and Eivor were in the middle of a reunion with the kind of familial intimacy that would baffle anyone who had never seen them together. He squished her cheeks between his hands like she was a child, and it was a mark of their love for each other that she seemed delighted rather than murderous. Something within Randvi ached at the sight of such a love. She felt a little guilty that she hadn’t been waiting for him on the dock when he arrived, but he didn’t seem to begrudge her, and greeted her with his usual reverent cordiality. 

“Ah! Randvi, my dear wife.” he said, paired with a chaste kiss on each cheek. He said something about bringing gifts for her and wealth for the clan, but she was distracted by the two strange men behind him unloading their belongings from the boat. They were dressed unusually and walked unbound - friends, then. Not thralls.

The two men were handsome in a way she had rarely seen before, all sharp angles, dark skin, and thick black hair. Sigurd introduced them - Basim and Hytham - as wise scholars, keepers of secrets and mystery, but they walked gracefully and surveyed their surroundings like warriors. Interesting. 

Sigurd led the way to the longhouse, waving all the while at those who came to meet him. His infectious warmth and charisma reminded Randvi why she had tried so hard to love him before he left.

* * *

That night at the feast, Sigurd laid out the riches he had accumulated over his two winters away, and offered it all to the grateful (and inebriated) clan. Randvi couldn’t help but admire him, but to hang upon him now felt somehow undignified or common. Instead she nursed a horn of mead in the corner of the longhouse and beheld his commanding presence from a comfortable distance.

“Randvi!” Of course Eivor singled her out for conversation. Randvi’s heart swelled at the sound of her name in Eivor’s mouth. She had gone weeks believing she’d never hear it again, and it was still a joyous experience, “I haven’t had the chance to say, thank you.”

“What for?”

“For speaking to me with such kindness when I returned. Even though my raid didn’t go according to plan.”

“As I predicted.” Randvi said, primly.

“As you predicted.”

“And don’t forget” Randvi inspected the contents of her horn, “you were also captured and nearly killed.”

“Yes. Thank you for not…”

Randvi waved off Eivor’s gratitude as unnecessary. “I knew Styrbjorn would do plenty of scolding. Anything I had to say would only be redundant.”

“It’s not the same,” Eivor said wonderingly, “Styrbjorn worries about the war. But you worry about me.” As though this was a new discovery. As though Randvi hadn’t been openly, consistently thinking of Eivor since the day they’d met. Randvi had to look away from the naked sincerity on her face and glared into her mead.

“Of course I worry about our prized drengr.” she said. And she took a sip of mead, unsure what else to say. Eivor seemed similarly lost, and cast her eyes about the room in search of a new subject.

“Sigurd has promised us both gifts but has been very mysterious as to what they might be.”

“Hmm.” Randvi smiled diplomatically. She tried to keep her tone light, “What do you think? Jewelry?” The very idea was absurd. Randvi carried the jest further, “something delicate and pretty for the two ladies in his life. Necklaces? One for his sister and one his wife?” at ‘wife’ Eivor’s mood visibly dampened. Despite being the one to bring him up in the first place. 

“Who knows. Perhaps he alone is gift enough for you.” There was a sharpness to the jab, a poorly hidden resentment that Randvi wasn’t sure she deserved. “Your bed will be warm tonight with your husband returned.” Eivor continued, “That must be a good feeling.”

“It is a different feeling. More crowded.” Randvi said, matching her sourness and turning it into a blade she knew how to wield, “I've gotten used to the empty space in my bed, and I have learned these last two winters how to keep myself warm.” Randvi let the innuendo hang in the air for a breath; she was gratified to see Eivor swallow, “Besides it’s been so long that he seems a stranger to me.”

Eivor shifted, clearly regretting the turn the conversation had taken. “Can you not rekindle the flame that once burned hot?” 

Randvi laughed,“when he crawls into my bed tonight to warm me, as you say, it will be with farts and honeyed breath!”

Eivor joined in her laughter. “We should all be so lucky.”

“So lucky as to what?” Randvi said, the laughter a little forced now, “Fall asleep in a stupor of mead? Or crawl into my bed? Ha!” That was mean of me, Randvi thought, as the laughter died from Eivor’s eyes. Randvi tried to course-correct to a less volatile subject matter, “I meant to ask - did you pay a visit to Valka? What did she say?”

Eivor paled. She took a step back as though suddenly remembering that Randvi carried a terrible communicable curse. “Nothing.” She said unconvincingly.

“I see.”

“It is not something I can speak on. Or wish to. I must go speak to my brother. Your husband. Forgive me.”

* * *

Randvi wasn’t alone with Sigurd until the last of the celebrants went to bed - or passed out in the longhouse - that night. The two of them made it back to their house, leaning on each other and singing songs.

“Oh Randvi,” Sigurd sat heavily on her bed. His face was flush with mead and delight. “I am glad to be home, and ready to make my way! I had such adventures. I saw such a world! I was so happy I didn’t even know I missed this place. But I did…” He crawled into a lying down position, “I did…”

Randvi felt a swell of affection for him. Everyone admired Sigurd. She was privileged to be the one who got to see him like this in private. “And we’re all overjoyed to have you back.” She said, warmly, “You bring such strength, and hope to our clan.”

“And gifts!” He added, scrambling to sit up, “I bring gifts too! I forgot! I’m slacking my duties as a husband! At this rate you’ll divorce me - and with good reason!” He rifled through one of the trunks strewn about the house and came back to the bed with something small wrapped in a napkin.

Inside was a finely woven gold bracelet. Like a tiny strip of chainmail - flat, flexible and light enough to be tucked unobtrusively beneath her bracer. Next to each clasp was a little round polished jewel, one red and one blue.

“It’s from an ancient civilization - made by those who lived in Miklagard before it was Miklagard. It belonged to a queen, and now, it belongs to my queen.”

Randvi was moved to hold an object endowed with the fall of one civilization and the rise of another. It felt heavier than gold. “Eivor and I occupied ourselves this evening guessing what your gifts to us might be. But this is beyond my imaginings. Thank you, Sigurd.” She kissed him warmly.

“Oh! For Eivor I brought back a beautifully crafted moving blade.”

Moving blade? He wasn’t speaking sense so Randvi nodded.

“You must ask her to show you!”

“Tell me about your travels husband! Tell me something you didn’t tell the rest of the clan. I’m curious about your friends!”

Sigurd perked up, “ahh! I met them just as I was planning to raid the Hagia Sophia. Basim talked me out of it without knowing, just by telling me of its history. Basim and Hytham carry many secrets, and much wisdom. There’s not much I can tell you without compromising my word. But -”

“Their clothes seem to imply they’re members of some religious sect? Perhaps a master and an apprentice? I presume in addition to wisdom they’ve offered their blades to our cause?”

“Ah you are too smart!” He touched her face fondly, “Yes you are right. But also not entirely. In any case, their interests and ours are aligned - at least for now. Basim in particular has much to teach me. He thinks there is something about me which must be cultivated carefully. He says I am destined for great things.”

Randvi eyed him suspiciously, “I have met many men who promise great destinies, and I have been wary of them all.”

Sigurd held up a placating hand, “I know. Believe me I know how it sounds. I _will_ be wary.” He lied down on his back on the bed, “Whatever I offer them, will be matched by whatever they can offer the clan.” he gestured for her to lie down with him, “Come.”

She did as she was bid and laid on her side with her head on his shoulder. He held her securely around her back and breathed a deep contented sigh. They were companionably quiet for a moment, but Randvi’s mind was still swirling.

“There’s something I’ve been longing to ask you. Something Gunnar told me.” Randvi said gently after a long silence, “Is it true that a _flock of ravens_ fought off a pack of wolves to save Eivor’s life when you were both children? It sounds too fantastical to be true, I’m sure he was embellishing the story to impress me. But he assures me you saw the whole thing”

Sigurd became terribly still. Hardly breathing. Randvi inwardly admonished herself for diving into such a bruising memory with so little warning. Finally Sigurd said, “Did Gunnar not tell you he was there that night?”

Randvi propped herself up on her elbows to look at Sigurd’s face, “What?”

“He was the blacksmith for the Bear clan at Heilbore, before he was a Raven. When I brought Eivor home he wept to see her alive. He fought bravely that night, drawing some of Kjotve’s men into the woods. By the time he returned, the slaughter was over. He found the body of Eivor’s mother, but Eivor was nowhere to be found. He feared that she’d been taken alive.”

Randvi shuddered at the thought and took her place again in Sigurd’s arms. They were silent again for a long time, and Randvi thought Sigurd had fallen asleep when he said, “Yes. It’s true about the ravens. I was barely holding on to a branch, climbing back onto the path and could only watch helplessly from above as Eivor was attacked, when suddenly -” Sigurd paused and sat up, amazed, “by the gods… Odin was with me… The ravens saved her life when I could not as though an extension of my will…” He was suddenly wide awake. “perhaps there truly is something to Basim’s stories…”

“What stories? Sigurd?”

“Randvi.” He turned to her, eyes wild with excitement, “You must not tell a soul. Not my father, not Eivor, not another living being.”

“You can trust me, husband.” Randvi assured him.

“There is something… unique about me. Basim isn’t sure just what yet. But I have learned so much, and _grown_ so much.” He shifted and took a deep breath before looking her seriously in the eye and saying: “I am destined for great things, Randvi, for I have the ear of Odin.”

Everything happened quickly after that night.

* * *

> _Most of the Raven Clan’s warriors went to the raid on Kjotve’s fortress, with a sizable number of King Harald’s men to swell our numbers to a formidable force._
> 
> _I did what I must always do during such battles: keep safe and keep busy - or else go mad._
> 
> _Sunniva told me the tale within hours of it all happening. Eivor Wolf-Kissed challenged Kjotve to single combat. She seemed to fall - her breath stopped, and Kjotve began to crow in victory - but then she rose miraculously and killed him with her father’s axe. Afterward, the fortress fell with ease. The Wolf Clan has been decimated to the point of irrelevance, and only Gorm - Kjotve’s son - escaped with his life into the north without putting up any fight._
> 
> _Hytham was gravely injured. I’m unsure of the details but it seems he leapt into the fray between Eivor and Kjotve. I cannot imagine what possessed him to do such a thing. He will recover, but his days as a warrior might already be behind him._
> 
> _Sigurd tells me that Eivor has reclaimed her honor despite the coward Gorm’s escape, but her face says otherwise._
> 
> _Now all have been called to an Althing at Alrekstad to celebrate the peace. Sigurd seems exhilarated. He is humble and says only that he is prepared for whatever the fates have spun for him. But I can see in his eyes that he has high hopes for the Althing. He is ready to take his place among kings._
> 
> _It is not my place to tell him what he will find in Alrekstad - what Styrbjorn promised in return for Harald’s men and assistance in bringing down Kjotve. But soon Styrbjorn means to bend the knee, and Sigurd will learn that he will never be a king in Norway._

* * *

King Harald’s banners were up, and his men in place before Styrbjorn and Sigurd had even returned. There were ripples throughout Thornburg as everyone began to understand the new way of things. No one was sure what to do, and rather than Styrbjorn, most everyone planned to look to Sigurd for answers upon their return.

The former prince arrived first, and Sigurd leapt from his boat without a word the moment it docked, and stalked to the house he shared with Randvi. She followed to find him repacking the boxes he had barely unpacked from his previous journey.

“Hjorr and his people were prepared.” He said without saying hello, “They have already left for England! They knew that Harald meant to claim all of Norway at a peaceful Althing. But I was kept shamefully ignorant. My father sang the praises of the Raven clan, of our reputation, and strength and _resilience_ -” he sneered, “all before dragging those words into the mud, and grinding it down with his bended knee. He has relinquished a title that should be mine by right!” He hit the bed with an open palmed slap and took a deep centering breath. He looked to Randvi, “Spread the word - quietly - to all who refuse to be ruled by Harald: tomorrow we meet in the longhouse at dawn. There we will make our next plan.”

“I will.” Randvi said. She knew she need only tell Gunnar, and the right people would know within the hour. “Did Eivor not return with you?”

Sigurd waved her concern away, “She stayed back. But do not concern yourself with her. She always arrives on time.”

They gathered the next morning in the longhouse, and true to Sigurd’s assurance, Eivor arrived just as the discussion was underway. The plan was to leave that very day without telling Styrbjorn, or alerting Harald’s men, and just hope the wind was on their side. They would regroup their ships in Stavanger, fully stock their supplies, then when they knew they had the wind, they would take the longest leg of their journey across the open water to Nordreyjar. Regroup, headcount, resupply again, and finally another day or two along the coast of England until they arrived in Mercia where they would meet the Ragnarsons and hopefully be welcomed as friends and allies for long enough for Eivor and Sigurd to scout a new location for the Raven Clan to settle. 

Sigurd had grand plans of taming all of England, of the Ragnarsons joining their ranks rather than the other way around, but Randvi just hoped they would find enough land to carve a place of their own.

There was much fear - that the English would never stop fighting back, that the Christians would force their way of life upon them - but despite these fears, a startling number of the citizens of Fornburg were loyal to Sigurd, and not only willing, but eager to follow him across the sea. It was a tribute to the magnetic force of his charisma.

He spoke of pushing forward, telling new stories of their own rather than becoming someone else’s subjects. Even Randvi felt herself swept up in the excitement of it all. The dream of new lands is a powerful lure.

They left Fornburg with little difficulty. Styrbjorn could do nothing to stop such a number of his people from leaving. And besides, he had already abdicated his power over them. So they left. And as Fornburg disappeared behind them, their futures unfolded unknown before them.

They arrived in Stavanger the next day - all ships within a few hours of each other. That night there was a shuffle of crew for the longest leg of the journey. Basim and Eivor traded places so he and Sigurd could discuss plans for England. leaving Hytham on Randvi’s ship without his master, and Eivor seated at Randvi’s feet for the next week.

On the fifth day of the voyage the wind stilled, the clouds parted, and the sun blazed with an unusual, baking heat. There was some discussion of rowing for a stretch, but Randvi ultimately ruled that as long as the current stayed on their side, it made more sense to wait a little to see if the wind picked up in their favor again. She encouraged the oarsmen to get some rest, and shelter from the sun as best they could. They would reassess in an hour. 

Everyone on board gladly took her at her word. Many of them removed their outermost layers, some of them slid to the floor and draped their cloaks over the benches to create makeshift shade. The ship, which was barely even bobbing in the water, became quiet and still, with only murmured conversations.

Randvi took off her cloak and bracers, and was considering the outer tunic and mail when -

“Do you think we’ll have heat like this where we’re going?” Eivor said, her voice a quiet rasp. She was leaning on her knees, looking gravely ahead.

Randvi gazed out in the direction of England, exhilarated to have the opportunity to say: “I don’t know.”

“I’ve heard it snows in England.” Eivor continued, “At least there will still be snow.” She had not joined her shipmates in removing her armor, and beads of sweat were gathering on her forehead. She wiped them with her fingertips.

“Eivor… Are you afraid?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She said quickly, fiddling with the odd cuff knife Sigurd had brought home for her.

“Oh of course not.” Randvi laughed, and began unbuckling the belts around her waist. “Now that the foundation of your being has been filled in by the death of your greatest enemy - as you said it would - and you may finally begin building a life on your own terms, unencumbered” She shed her plush blue outer tunic, and started on the light mail underneath, already feeling so much more comfortable without that outer layer, “unencumbered by leftover childhood monsters. What could one such as you _possibly_ fear from the yawning abyss of such unending possibilities?” She folded her tunic carefully around the half finished bible she’d been writing in, and began to unwind the leather straps keeping her boots up and pulled those off as well.

“Randvi…” 

“Oh! Not to mention this new beginning coinciding with your relocation to an entirely new land, with very few resources, peopled by strangers - many of whom will be hostile to you and those you hold dear. You are quite right. You, afraid? A ridiculous prospect.”

“I - what are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Randvi was standing on the edge of the ship in her leggings and tunic and was just finishing tying a length of rope around her waist. 

Eivor opened her mouth to speak but seemed unable to form the words.

“I’m going to ask Njoror for a little bit of wind.” Randvi tossed her the heavy coil of rope, “hold that,” and dove into the still water. It was colder than she anticipated, and when she resurfaced, she welcomed the heat of the sun on her face. She heard laughter and ruckus behind her and turned to see half her crew cheering and slapping the side of the boat. She gave a short wave before being bowled over by an unexpected little cat’s paw wave. She sputtered and tried not to swallow too much sea water as she laughed from outright delight.

She caught Eivor’s eye, and Eivor smiled wide and guileless, her eyes had become soft with joy and her bearing relaxed for the first time in days. She was unbearably beautiful. Randvi felt her face heat from the inside this time, and she snapped her limbs together to knife under the water.

‘Mighty Njoror.’ her heart shouted into the water, ‘in the depths of your domain I beg you, intercede to your daughter Freja on my behalf. Bid her lighten this curse upon me, so it ceases to drown me.’

She stayed under for as long as she could, and when she direly needed to breathe, she resurfaced and swam back to the boat. Just as she was climbing up, a friendly gust of wind picked up and playfully ruffled them all. The crew cheered and Randvi cheered along with them. 

“You have the ear of the gods.” Eivor said, just loud enough for Randvi to hear.

“That remains to be seen.” 

Over the cheering she heard Norvid pipe up, “Randvi we’re roasting! Can we all jump in?”

Randvi dropped her smile in an instant and called over the cheers, “No. Sail up!”

* * *

They arrived at Nordreyjar half a day before Sigurd. The locals were well accustomed to strangers arriving unannounced and were happy to trade and offer another two days’ supplies. 

Eivor rejoined Sigurd’s boat on the final leg of the journey, and Randvi got Basim back on hers. The final two days’ travel were uneventful, and close enough to the English shore to get a good look at their future home. All the green rolling hills, and cliffs, and glimpses of ruins filled her with a verdant excitement. It smelled lush and alive. The land was fertile and ready and ready for them.

They stayed within sight of the other boats this time, and Randvi followed when Sigurd’s boat led the way into the mouth of a river. Closer up there was a dangerous twist to the dense thickets of trees, and the smell of mud and blood mingled with the floral greenery. As their boats twisted down the river towards their final stop, Randvi felt with an elated certainty that their story was only just beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Working titles for Chapter 3:  
> \- Oh look! The status quo!  
> \- I should have just written "and then they went to England."  
> \- Trying to force fic into canon like
> 
> If you liked this, please leave a comment! I cannot express how much even a simple comment motivates me. I've got one little seratonin left. He's doing his best, and he's scared.  
> If you hated it, please inflict my writing on someone you dislike.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Raven Clan begins the hard work of setting down roots in England, and Randvi is faced with the difficult task of evaluating where Eivor fits in her life - if she fits at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a beta reader!!! A thousand thanks to Adarbitrium for making this chapter remotely legible! 
> 
> Go check out her fic "Alla Ævi" if you haven't already. Which - statistically speaking - if you're reading this, you already have.

> _The Ragnarsson’s settlement was empty other than a small camp of bandits - easily dispatched. The longhouse is in a dire state - less easily repaired._
> 
> _Everyone is doing what they can to turn this place into a habitable settlement. Everyone works. From skald to warrior to child, everyone builds until there is a place for everyone to sleep. I have hope for this place._
> 
> _We have already acquired two new residents:_
> 
> _Yanli, a merchant and explorer from the east who is familiar with England. Her contacts will prove useful._
> 
> _And Rowan, a stable master. Fornburg’s stable master chose to stay in Norway - loyal to Styrbjorn through abdication. Rowan prefers horses to people, but one can hardly blame him. People are irritating and unpredictable._
> 
> _Gudrun and Gudmund are already building more ships so we may seek out supplies and raw materials for building. I’m not thrilled that we must begin raiding so soon. Making enemies before we’ve met our neighbors seems counterintuitive. But Sigurd is right - we cannot build from air._
> 
> _I think Sigurd and I will do well here. Given the opportunity to spend time together, we might find the kind of love one hopes to feel as husband and wife._
> 
> _If only there was a way to get our bearings in this strange land. The maps we came with are crude and incomplete. And we are in the dark as to the location of the Ragnarssons._

* * *

Randvi wasted no time claiming the room outside the Jarl’s quarters for herself. It was already furnished with several large tables, and boasted plenty of storage and light. Though some of that light would disappear once the massive hole in the roof was repaired. Still, she knew it would be the perfect place to plan and gather intel. She pictured herself and Sigurd standing at that table in the center, poring over her notes, finally getting to know each other as they built and oversaw their new home.

Their second afternoon there Sunniva fetched Randvi with the promise of an interesting discovery. Randvi followed her all the way through the settlement, to a dense thicket of wood, a comfortable distance from the docks, and directly on the water. It smelled foul.

“What am I looking at here?” Randvi asked.

“There’s a box of documents over there I thought you might like to see.” Sure enough, on the other side of the damp thicket, there was a box with several large rolled up papers.

“Documents? What are they doing out here?”

Sunniva shifted uncomfortably, “Well, I think the bandits were using them to…”

Randvi wrinkled her nose, “I see.” 

“To wipe their asses when they took a shit.”

Randvi turned, aghast. Sunniva grimaced.

“What good is a scout who only tells you half the truth!?” she said defensively.

Randvi conceded a sharp laugh. “Of course. Best not to leave any details up to innuendo.” She sighed and, being careful where she stepped, made her way to the box. Thankfully, the box and papers themselves seemed clean, though close inspection revealed that some of the smaller documents had been ripped apart into smaller pieces. As disgusting as their location, these documents could be everything they needed to set them on the right path.

She thanked Sunniva for sharing this discovery, and told her to come find her in an hour for her next assignment. Already feeling buoyant, Randvi made her way through their nameless settlement with her paper treasures. The settlement was buzzing with activity, everyone staking out places for themselves and their families, pitching temporary shelters, and shouting merrily to one another. A team of brave souls - unafraid of heights - were repairing the impressively high vaulted roof of the longhouse. Inside, a few of the children made themselves useful by pulling out clutter leftover by the Ragnarssons, the bandits, or whatever beasts had taken shelter here since its abandonment - all to be sorted and claimed by whomever found them useful. Some of the young women swept the dirt from the floor, and righted furniture, repairing what needed repairing. 

Randvi walked briskly into her ready room. She would have liked to close the door behind her but it was off its hinges, lying sadly on the floor behind the throne like a dead giant. She dropped the box of papers on the floor and eagerly pulled out the first rolled up document, placing it on the table in a friendly beam of light (courtesy of that hole in the roof) and unrolling it to find a detailed regional map of England. Her heart swelled at the sight and she nearly whooped with joy, when a noise above her drew her attention. Still smiling, she looked up to see Eivor adjusting her weight to position herself below the opening in Randvi’s ready room, tools and supplies precariously at the ready.

She had taken her shirt off in the heat of the summer sun; the expanse of her back damp with exertion, and the twist of muscles in her arms taut with the unconscious effort to hold herself in place. Far from shaken by the reality of this new land - as she had seemed on the boat - Eivor seemed exhilarated by the work ahead. A light smile played on her lips as she looked out over the rest of the settlement. Randvi felt her face turn red. It wasn’t at the sight of her skin in the afternoon sun, or the ropes of muscle down her back undulating gently as she breathed. Or her fingers curled into the opening of the roof to hold herself on.

But rather, this was Eivor unobserved in a moment of rest. A sight too intimate for Randvi to dwell on.

“Hello Eivor!” Randvi called up.

Eivor took a deep breath as though waking from a pleasant rest and fixed Randvi with a contented smile, “Hello,” she called down, “I promise I did not climb up here merely to enjoy the view. I will fix this for you before it rains on your work.”

“Of that I have no doubt.”

True to her word, Eivor began her work on the roof, as Randvi continued to assess her new maps. She looked forward to supplementing her existing map (barely an outline of England) with the topography, political and regional lines, and notable locations portrayed on the other maps. One of the maps had been scribbled on extensively with charcoal, centering on Mercia, just to the north of their current location.

She reached into the box of documents again and fished out some of the torn papers at the bottom. 

_“ - If you are to meet us in Mercia, see to it that you curb your brother’s erratic”_

Read one piece. The rest was torn away. In a different hand:

 _I cannot join you in Mercia. My concerns to the north are too pressing"_ _  
_ _to abandon. You’ll understand when you are called to rule over more_ _  
_ _"- than that scrap of land you’re currently holding, and finally take_

And another, barely legible scribble:

 _If you decide to stay in that backwoods tent_ _rather_ _than"  
.join me in my raids, _ _I will swear you are no brother of mine  
Mercia is just one lash from bending over and begging us to  
"take it for ourselves _

“I wonder if they’re in Mercia,” Randvi mused aloud.

Just then, Sunniva and Norvid appeared at her door. Sunniva stood alert at the threshold as Norvid made a token effort to knock on the doorframe that would eventually hold a door. Randvi couldn’t wait for that door. 

She bid them enter and caught them up with what she’d discovered so far.

“Sunniva, head north to Mercia, seek out the Ragnarssons and discover the current political situation. Who’s in power, who _wants_ to be in power, where do the Ragnarsonns and their people stand? Take however many scouts with you as you think you’ll need, and supply accordingly.

“Norvid, get to know our neighbors. Learn the political structure of England. Find out who we must ingratiate ourselves to in the territories directly surrounding us. Start to the East. This region here looks to be in Dane control. I need you both to leave at first light. Take the rest of the day to–”

Just then there was panicked shouting from outside near the far entrance. With barely a look at her scouts, Randvi rushed across the long hall to see a crowd gathered just outside the western door of the longhouse. Randvi looked to where the gathered crowd was pointing and saw a pair of kicking feet; Alvis - the skald - was dangling dangerously off the highest point of the roof, both arms gripping Eivor’s steady forearm. Her other arm held tight to an exposed beam. She seemed to be speaking quietly to him, fixing him with calm, relentless eye contact.

He started to look down to the ground.

“Alvis!” Eivor commanded - the only thing she’d said loudly enough to be heard from below, “I said look at _me.”_

Why had he been allowed to work on the roof at all? Randvi began calculating what might happen if he fell. He probably wouldn’t die, but he would likely break one or both of his legs. He would need to be cared for and with Valka still in Norway their healing capabilities were limited. If the break became infected he would be in trouble.

Alvis began to swing himself back and forth along the flat face of the longhouse, like a heavy tree banner on a windy day. Left, right, “One!” Eivor cried. 

Left - a little higher, right - higher, “Two!”

Left - higher still, and right! “Three!” Alvis kicked a leg out and hooked it onto the sloped roof. With Eivor’s help he hefted the rest of his body onto the roof, rolled onto his back and slid down the steep slope dragging Eivor a few shingles before they skidded to a stop. Eivor let go, unbuckled her wrist brace, and said something to Alvis. The two of them laughed dryly and waved down to the gathered crowd.

The crowd seemed to take a collective sigh of relief, and now that everyone was safe, laughter rumbled through them all. A few people threw light hearted mockery up at Alvis as he regained his steadiness. Just as the crowd dispersed, Sigurd arrived.

* * *

That night they feasted. There wasn’t much to go around, so “feast” was more of a mindset than a reality, but Sigurd felt it was important for everyone to feel tied to their new home. What ale they had was watered down so much as to be hardly considered ale, but spirits and voices were high.

There was dancing, and games, and in front of the main entrance a battle of epic proportions raged between three mighty warriors, and Eivor Wolf-kissed - Jotun drengr. The three children climbed Eivor like a tree. They struggled to take her down, and screamed with peals of laughter as she roared, pretending to attack in slow motion. One child dangled from her arm, another wrapped himself around her ankle as a third reared up to leap onto her back. This was enough to bring the beast down, and with a final roar of laughter Eivor was prone, tongue lolling out in mock death as the children whooped and cheered their triumph.

After allowing an appropriate interval for victorious celebration, Eivor stood, brushed off her tunic and ambled to the stew at the center of the hall.

“Eivor! Eivor!” one of the children (Sylvi) cried, following after and taking a firm hold of her sleeve, “don’t you want a rematch?”

“I’m afraid you’ve tired me out, warriors!” Eivor laughed. “I must gather my strength.”

“A story then?” Sylvi said slyly, and Randvi had the impression that this had been her aim all along.

“Yes! A story!” the boys chimed in.

Eivor chucked and served herself some stew, sat on the bench nearest the fire, and gave no indication of acquiescence as the children continued to clamor.

“Have I told you,” she finally said, quieting the children immediately, “the tale of Erik Loyalskull? Loyal warrior to Ragnar Lothbrok?”

The children gathered to sit at her feet, and before long other conversations throughout the longhouse quieted. Everyone listened as Eivor told the story. She thought she’d been tracking a bear, only to find an old warrior the _size_ of a bear hiding there. A childhood friend to Ragnar Lothbrok himself. They had played in this very cave and killed beasts together. When they were grown, the old man had been one of Ragnar’s prized warriors, friends, and confidants.

But now the great Ragnar had died, leaving Erik with nowhere to place his famed loyalty. And though Erik Loyalskull had lived a full, worthy life he only regretted that no one had been able to kill him yet.

“And so I, humbled by his request, fought the mighty drengr,” Eivor said, setting her stew to the side, and standing to reenact the fight, taking the spoon from the communal pot of stew for her axe. “He was a masterful warrior, ferocious of heart and viciously fast - too fast for a man his size. Every hit I tried to land he easily blocked as though I was nothing more than a buzzing insect to swat away.”

Randvi felt herself leaning forward. Of course Eivor won the fight - if it ever happened - she was still alive to tell of it! But the way she spoke, the shadows behind her on the longhouse wall, the wonder in the eyes of children and adults alike. She was taller than her height, greater than her voice, and all without the slightest effort.

Randvi caught sight of Sigurd, leaning on the door frame far on the other side of the longhouse. He had a strange unreadable expression on his face. The shape of a smile, but wrapped in dissatisfaction, like a fruit with bitter skin.

Basim appeared from outside and stood close to Sigurd, speaking quietly in his ear. Randvi still hadn’t formed a clear image of Basim in her mind. He had sat in her boat for days making only banal observations about the weather, otherwise keeping quietly to himself.

He was pleasant and polite, but there was something condescending about his affect; as though he only spoke to appease her as one might appease an interesting pet - like she was a lesser creature barely worth notice. Randvi wondered if wives had different duties where he came from. But Hytham was so different from him that couldn’t have been the whole story.

Basim said something that made Sigurd laugh. Sigurd replied without taking his eyes off Eivor, his lips twisting further and further from mirth until the pretense of a smile was gone. Basim turned away from the longhouse, and with a final word, beckoned Sigurd to follow. 

“–and with a final kick, the drengr knelt before me gripping a mortal wound with one hand, and holding his body upright with the other. ‘Now I go to see my brother,’ he said, ‘He who laughed at death!’ and he collapsed.” 

Eivor gestured to the ground before her, and all eyes turned to look as though they too could see the ferocious fallen warrior. “He lay dying slowly. Painfully.” Eivor’s voice was barely loud enough to rival the pop of the fire. “I knelt beside him, and pressed his axe to his chest. ‘A worthy warrior will walk the hall of the fallen today,’ I said, ‘Until we battle again in the fields of Valhalla, keep your axe sharp for me,’ and I slit his throat.” 

Only the fire dared breathe as those gathered beheld the imagined outline of the noble drengr. 

“Erik Loyalskull!” Eivor shouted, holding her spoon aloft.

“Erik Loyalskull!” Thundered through the longhouse amid cheers and thundering fists on tables. And “Erik Loyalskull” was spoken and sung between laughter and drinks for the rest of the night.

Very few people had pitched livable tents, so nearly everyone slept in the longhouse that night. By the time Randvi was ready to retire Sigurd was already in the jarl’s bedroom - just off of what Randvi had affectionately dubbed “her” map room. She hadn’t seen him come in, but he was undressed for sleep, seated on the bed and facing away from the door.

“Hello, my dear,” Sigurd said dryly as she entered the room. Words like ‘dear’ and ‘my love’ always rang discordantly from him. She always stumbled when she called him anything similar. “I’ve been looking for any leads about the Ragnarssons.” He sounded exhausted. “It would be disappointing if they’ve died already.”

“Oh!” Randvi cried, the day's discoveries coming back in a rush, “I think I know where the Ragnarssons are!” she went to Sigurd and knelt on the bed beside him, “From the documents I’ve found, I believe they might be in Mercia - just to the north of us. Give me another day, and I’ll have consolidated my maps and will be able to give you a more detailed–”

Sigurd lit up, “Wonderful news!” he took hold of her face and kissed her forehead, “I have been gifted the cleverest wife.”

“I would have told you sooner,” Randvi said, warm with pride, “if Alvis hadn’t nearly thrown himself off the roof. Did you see?”

“I did see,” Sigurd said, his face falling back into neutrality.

“Perhaps Alvis should help the settlement with both feet on the ground from now,” Randvi carried on blithely, missing Sigurd’s return to his subdued, pensive state. “He wanted to ‘see Ravensthorp from a raven’s-eye view.’ Perhaps he was so _inspired_ he forgot where he was.”

Sigurd nodded, his smile turning brittle again, “And Eivor snatched him out of the air and righted him again with one arm.” He turned back to the wall. “She certainly knows how to draw attention to herself.”

“Would you have had him fall?” Randvi asked, confused at his bitterness.

“No! No. What kind of… no.”

Randvi bit her lip, “I think it was a wonderful idea to have a feast tonight,” she said, hoping the praise would bring him back to the pleasant mood she had glimpsed at the mention of the Ragnarssons.

“Ah yes!” he said, voice tinged in sarcasm, “What better way to toast the memory of Erik Loyalskull!” 

So this mood _was_ about Eivor. “All she did was tell a story,” Randvi said carefully, trying to gauge the source of his unrest. 

“Yes.” Sigurd laughed without joy. “A warrior _and_ a poet.”

“She couldn’t have gotten away _without_ telling a story once Sylvi was on her about it,” Randvi said, keeping her tone light, “I doubt it was even true.”

“Of course it was true. She always knows where to find remarkable stories - wherever she is.” Sigurd wasn’t bothering to hide his bitterness. “She attracts wondrous things like that. And people. People are drawn to her with no understanding of why. And she doesn’t even notice.” Randvi sat beside him on the bed and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Admiration for one sibling does not rob another. You are beloved among our people,” she said softly.

He placed one cold hand over hers but didn’t relax. A small panic vibrated at the periphery of her notice. It felt terribly important to bring Sigurd to a place of calm, though she couldn’t pinpoint why.

“So much of what you do goes unseen,” she murmured, “such is the burden of a Jarl. Skalds have ready rhymes for tales of battle, but fewer for map rooms and treaties. Yet a community does not thrive on battle alone. You toil for the glory of Raven Clan. For all of us. And she toils for the glory of her Jarl. For you.”

He pressed a cheek to their entwined hands, “You provide excellent counsel, my love.” He kissed her hand. “What did I do without you these last two years. Look at me. Pouting like a child!” He laughed and stood, “I would be a fool not to be proud of my finest weapon.”

The clouds parted without the threatened storm.

“I will seek out the Ragnarssons as soon as I can,” he said “Everyone will be better off once we have secured their friendship.”

* * *

Over the following days, the longhouse began to look like something they could be proud of. Beneath the cleaned and repaired tables, the once mildewy rugs - which Sigurd had dragged all the way from the east, to Norway, then here to England - finally found their use.

(Randvi had eyed the bulky things with disdain as they lay limp and smelly on her boat. She had mentally calculated what else they might have brought if Sigurd had been willing to leave them behind. But the rugs had been aired and cleaned and placed under the long tables, and Randvi had to admit they were beautiful.)

The storage room - jutting off the side of the longhouse like an odd growth - Sigurd had ordered cleaned and furnished with an opulence second only to his and Randvi’s room.

“For Eivor,” he said, clearly pleased with himself, “My greatest weapon.”

Randvi didn’t like the idea of Eivor being so near every night. The dreams had nearly ceased, but how was she meant to sleep knowing the cure for temptation was in the same building, half a dozen breaths away. “Will she not lodge with the other warriors at the dock?” Randvi asked with a frown.

“I want her always nearby, to make it clear to all that I appreciate her contributions to the clan.” Sigurd seemed proud of this decision. Like he wanted Randvi to compliment him on his selflessness.

But she could only manage a light “Ah.” before going back to her maps. 

After hours of painstaking work, she had cross-referenced all the maps and copied the relevant details onto hers. It was a beautiful piece of drafting with a key so complex she was the only one who would ever understand it. When Sigurd and Eivor arrived, ready for an update on her findings, she was pleased to share her work.

“I give you:” Randvi said, unrolling her magnificent map with a proud flourish, “England and its four kingdoms. Mercia, East Anglia, Northumbria, and Wessex.”

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected,- applause, perhaps - but when neither of them marvelled at her skill and attention to detail, she went ahead and explained the rest of her findings. That the sons of Ragnar had likely pushed north into Mercia. Mercia was a journey, but not far from their current location: a small wood that none of the maps had bothered to name. Giving them the opportunity to name their new home themselves.

Eivor leaned both hands on the table, her thumbs and forefingers gently grazing the soft frayed edge of the paper, “Ravensthorpe,” she said, “the village of ravens.” 

“Hm.” Sigurd began a slow circle about the table, and Randvi worried for a moment that he would opt against the name. After all, here was Eivor once again shining effortlessly. “I like it,” he finally said.

With the name settled, they agreed that they had to finish building if they wanted any stability. And if they wanted to build, they needed supplies. They needed to raid.

Despite Randvi’s ambivalence, she recognized the necessity. And they didn’t need _all_ their neighbors to like them. Just the powerful ones. Eivor excused herself from the meeting with the intention to seek out a raid immediately.

* * *

> _Eivor’s raiding party returned to Ravensthorpe just as the sun was setting. The monastery must have been near. Eivor was not with them but a glance at the crew (exhausted, but happy with their work) made it clear that there was nothing to worry about._
> 
> _Dag - sweaty, grumpy, and looking ever more like a bedraggled bear - reported to me in Eivor’s place._
> 
> _“Our raid leader has opted to run about the countryside exploring.” He sneered. So open was his contempt, that I wonder if he was inviting me to share in it. But I could not. Exploring is a good idea. I told him as much and he had nothing further to say. He is respectful to me, but only in that I belong to Sigurd - whom Dag adores above all reason. Sigurd is a fine man but from Dag’s admiration, one would expect him to carry the strength of Thor, the courage of Tyr, and the wisdom of Odin._

A day later, Eivor was still exploring, and Hytham came to see Randvi.

Unlike his master, the apprentice Hytham’s politeness was as kind as it was formal. Hytham seemed genuinely interested in everyone, as though eager to decipher the unique wisdom that every person carried. More than once Randvi had seen him seated with someone on a noisy evening in the longhouse, listening wholeheartedly despite the distractions. He listened - brows furrowed, eyes focused on the table before him and ear cocked towards the speaker - with an intensity that seemed to make the speaker feel self conscious after a while. 

Back in Norway, he had been badly injured after he foolishly got in the middle of Eivor’s holmgang with Kjotve the cruel. He had recovered from the worst of his injuries after only a day of nausea and disorientation, and everyone had been optimistic about his prospects. But after another few days, other symptoms had shaken loose into notice. His dizziness had not resolved, and instead coalesced into a wavering unfocus as his eyes struggled to latch on to any one shape. After more time, his eyes managed to focus again, but a shapeless black hole of blindness had asserted itself into the middle of his line of sight, leaving only the corners of his vision clear.

And so, as he spoke to Randvi he seemed to look somewhere near her right shoulder. “I have intel on locations I would like Eivor to visit.”

“Excellent, what do you have for me?”

He hesitated, flushing bright red, “Well, you see, ” he furrowed his brow, concentrating on every word, “I cannot tell you what I know. It is against… the sacred…”

“Very well, Hytham,” Randvi interjected, not wanting him to hurt himself. “How can I help, then?”

“I cannot tell _you_ what I know, but I _can_ tell anyone who has been entrusted with our sacred weapon. Whatever _they_ do with that information is up to them, and I am morally excused for trusting them with that information. And if they were to cross-reference my secret information, with the intel from your scouts…” 

He looked so serious that Randvi had to stop herself from smiling. “When she returns, I will send Eivor to see you. And whatever she tells me… she tells me.”

* * *

Another day later, Eivor was still exploring, and Randvi was compiling her report for Sigurd when she heard a voice from the door.

“Randvi, someone here for you.”

Randvi looked up to see Gunnar standing over a young saxon girl, with one hand on her shoulder. A girl of perhaps eleven winters - glowering at her, and holding out a scrap of paper with a shaking hand.

“Oh. Hello. Is this for me?”

The girl’s eyes darted around before settling back on Randvi. She nodded curtly. Randvi took the scrap of paper and read:

> **_“Her name is Mae.  
>  I sent her.  
>  She can read and write - rare - and can surely be useful to the settlement. Might have brought goats.  
>    
>  Mother dead. Father abandoned her.  
>    
>  ~ Eivor”_ **

“She arrived with some goats and would only speak to you.”

“Eivor sent her,” Randvi said distractedly, inspecting the note for any details she might have missed. “Thank you, Gunnar, I can take it from here.” Gunnar took his hand from the girl’s shoulder and took a few steps away but lingered to listen. Randvi bent down to meet the girl’s glare, “Mae, is it?”

The girl nodded.

“Well… Hello. Mae. I’m Randvi. I’m the person you were supposed to find.” Randvi looked around, unsure what else to say. She was never sure what to say to children this age. Babies were one thing, limited needs, limited communication, limited opportunity for misunderstanding. But children were conscious, unpredictable beings with strange ideas, and capricious moods, “Do you know why you were sent to speak to me?”

Mae nodded.

“Will you tell me?”

“That horrible woman sent me,” she said, pointing at the note.

“Eivor?”

“I… don’t know her name.”

“Tall, blonde? Sounds like an angry rock?”

“Yes.”

“Eivor.”

“ _Eivor”_ the girl spit out the name, her Saxon accent twisting it into something harsh and broad, “she made it so my father would never come home.”

Randvi stood up and exchanged a disconcerted glance with Gunnar over Mae’s head. Did Eivor… kill this girl’s father? It certainly would explain why Eivor felt responsible enough to send her here. “Is that so?” Randvi said evenly.

The girl bit her lip and shuffled her feet against each other, “Yes.”

Randvi looked to Gunnar again. He shrugged silently, “Did she…” Randvi knelt before the girl again, “Did she tell you we would take care of you? Because I’m afraid we -“

“I can take care of myself,” Mae declared. 

“Well yes, but…” Randvi sighed. “Listen child - Mae. You have no obligation to stay, but if you choose to stay you will have to pull your weight. You may sleep in the longhouse until we think of a better place for you. I will ask around in the morning to see who… needs help.”

“I can care for the goats,” the girl said in that strangely accented English trill, “I can build a fence for them first thing. I see you have no livestock yet, and goats are better than cows.” She was still glaring, but she was standing up taller, puffed up by the authority of expertise.

“Are they?”

“Yes. Cows provide milk and meat. They are picky eaters who eat too much, and they are ugly. Goats provide milk, meat, wool, friendship, they eat a reasonable amount of anything _and_ they are cute.”

This was a compelling argument, and Randvi had to respect the conviction to include a factor of “cute” in the measure of what makes a superior livestock animal. 

“I wasn’t going to make you get rid of your goats,” Randvi said. “Of course you must care for them. I’ll take a look at the land and see where we can put them.”

Randvi found a place for Mae and her goats - behind the spot staked out for the forge - and there were enough spare hands to help her set up a temporary pen for the creatures under Mae’s imperious direction. 

Things began to settle to the point where a day became predictable. As Randvi waited for news from her scouts, and - less urgently - for Eivor to return, she worked on her maps, helped around town wherever needed and slept in Sigurd’s bed every night.

He didn’t touch her. In fact, he hadn’t touched her since returning from his two year journey - apart from a kiss on her forehead or a steady hand on her shoulder. Part of her was relieved, but an anxious fearful part of herself was terrified that she’d done something wrong, or that he was angry at her.

Which might be why it rattled Randvi so badly that Sigurd didn’t tell her he was leaving for Mercia until he was nearly ready to walk out the longhouse and mount his horse. 

“But there’s work to be done here,” she protested. “I’ve only just heard back from Norvid and I had intended to discuss Grantebridgescire with you.”

“You’ll have to send Eivor. It’s more important that we secure the friendship of the Ragnarssons, and thus it is more appropriate if I, the Jarl, reach out in person.”

“How long will you be gone?” Visions of Sigurd listening intently as she outlined the details of her intel came back to her. Sigurd asking polite clarifying questions, perhaps getting off topic and finding things to laugh about and enjoy together.

“As long as it takes. I have every confidence that Eivor will be able to take my place in all ways necessary until my return.”

In her mind, Eivor took Sigurd’s place in those long imagined hours in the map room. She saw Eivor there, as Randvi bent over her maps, discussing strategy. Eivor’s long fingers toying with the pawns Randvi had painstakingly carved with her own. Eivor’s pale green eyes flashing up to meet hers late at night in the light of only one last sputtering candle. Eivor licking her lips to say-

“That’s not going to work,” Randvi said with finality, “It should be you making arrangements for these alliances, planning what to build and–”

“Randvi, this is my final decision. Once the Ragnarssons are on our side, everything else will fall into place. Every other alliance, all the other leaders with lesser known names will strengthen our ties to this land, but they will not bring so much glory to Raven Clan without the Ragnarssons.”

And with that he left. Randvi opted to stay in her map room rather than see him off, and she watched as he crossed the length of the longhouse towards a waiting Basim at the other end. Basim was obscured in a shadow cast by the glaring afternoon sun, the light barely grazing the gentle angles of his handsome face leaving her with little detail to see him by. But she could tell when he glanced at her. Impassive. Disinterested. Like a serpent with other plans for dinner. She shuddered.

Just as Sigurd had pointed out, Eivor always appeared just in time. Mere minutes after Sigurd and Basim disappeared to mount their horses, Eivor came bounding into Randvi’s room.

“Sigurd said you had an assignment for me.”

“You caught him before he left?”

“Barely.” She drummed her fingers on the central table and glanced back out into the longhouse, towards where she had said goodbye to her brother. Sunlight from the thatching behind her danced on her jaw, and illuminated her unkempt blonde hair. 

Sigurd’s voice came back to Randvi “ _She attracts wondrous things like that. And people. People are drawn to her with no understanding of why. And she doesn’t even notice.”_

It occurred to Randvi for the first time that her attraction to Eivor was likely nothing remarkable. It was in all probability a common reaction to her drawing presence. There was no reason to believe that what she felt meant anything to Eivor who, in all likelihood, was accustomed to hangers on. Perhaps it meant nothing beyond a confirmation of Eivor’s exceptional presence. 

Randvi found this an oddly comforting thought: to realize that it meant nothing. It made it easier to let go.

“I’d like to help Gunnar set up the forge,” Eivor said, drawing Randvi back to the present moment. “We can’t fight without weapons. Not to mention that if Gunnar is happy, that happiness tends to seep into everyone else,” a fondness quirked the corner of her lips, “It will likely take a few days. But after that, Sigurd has requested that I secure alliances for Ravensthorpe. What can you tell me?” 

“My scouts come and go daily with interesting news and tidings,” Randvi replied in a clipped, businesslike tone, “And I’m beginning to get my bearings in this fractured land. As I learn more I can give you insight into each territory–”

“What do you know of Lunden so far?

“ _Lunden?_ ”

“Hytham wants to send me to Lunden. He provided me with some intel. I’m not sure why he didn’t simply pass it to you, but you should have it. You’ll know better what to do with it than I.”

Randvi accepted the thick sheath of research. It would take at least a day to absorb. “I don’t know enough about that place yet to send you there.” she set down the papers on one of the side tables. “You can go, but it will be difficult until I know more. I don’t advise it.”

“I’ll hold off then.”

“You could follow your brother to Mercia as soon as the forge is complete, or you could secure an alliance with Grantebridgescire, with Guthram Jarl, and his second, Soma - lady of the city Grantebridge.”

“What do you think?”

“According to Norvid, Soma Jarlskona was recently pushed out of the city of Grantebridge. If you join Sigurd first, then by the time you return - if Soma has not regained her city on her own - we will have to strive to ally ourselves to the new leader of Grantebridge: a Saxon who bears no love for Dane or Norse. Or we will have to push him out after he has had months to dig in his heels. If you help Soma and her people now, we will not only have a Dane ally in power, but one who will be in our debt for regaining her city. This is not to say that it is in any way a good thing that Grantebridge was taken…” 

“But helping her now would be a boon. Very well. I’ll pledge–” Eivor pulled out a dagger and held it aloft.

“No don’t!” Randvi screamed.

Eivor jumped and nearly dropped the dagger, eyes wide, “I was going to put the dagger on the map!”

“Please don’t stab it! I’ve worked hard on this map. I don’t have it in me to–”

“Why would I stab the map that’s insane!”

“It looked as though–”

“It’s a placeholder like your pawns. The dagger represents me. Because I’m–”

“Yes, yes alright. I understand. It makes sense when you put it like that.”

“Though perhaps presumptuous to equate myself with... I would never stab your map! We need this intact.” She put her hand over her heart gathering herself, “Randvi, please don’t–”

“My apologies -”

“Scream so.”

Randvi laughed, embarrassed at the intensity of her reaction, as Eivor made an ostentatious show of carefully placing the dagger on the precious map with the tip pointing at Grantebridgescire, and stepping carefully away with a smirk on her face. Randvi was strangely relieved to be in the same room as Eivor in this companionable vein. She was warmed by her presence, not set dangerously ablaze. This was a friendship she could maintain, and she no longer felt dread at the thought of long hours in this room with her.

Eivor thanked her for her time, and was nearly out the door when she remembered: “Did a child - a girl with goats - Mae - happen to come to Ravensthorpe?”

“Did you not see her? She’s been wandering about town all day.”

“Hm. No.” Eivor said, perplexed. Based on Mae’s description of Eivor, Randvi wouldn’t have been surprised if the girl had hid when she saw her coming. “I’m glad she decided to come to Ravensthorpe.” Eivor said, seemingly to herself.

“About that,” Randvi said carefully, “I hope we are not to anticipate a parade of orphans every time you leave here.”

Eivor was ominously silent. 

“We are new to this land, Eivor;” Eivor was suddenly intensely interested in the map of England again, and didn’t seem to hear Randvi, “we don’t have the resources to care for those who are not of our own.”

Eivor snapped up to look at her, “Of course we do,” she said, sharply, “ _I_ do. I receive a greater share of spoils as raid leader. What else am I meant to do with all this… _wealth_ ?” An edge of frustration warped her stoic demeanor. “My lodging has already been seen to, here. I have no…” she looked back down to the map and picked up one of the white pawns shaped like a fat bishop, turning it around in her fingers, “I have no family to provide for,” she said, low and quiet, leaving unspoken the likelihood that she never would. “Why not care for those I am able to, _when_ I am able?”

Randvi’s heart ached at the hollow loneliness of those words, and without thinking, she reached for the little bishop in Eivor’s hands and gently extricated him from her grasp. Uncurling Eivor’s calloused fingers with her own, and lingering for a heartbeat too long.

“The girl is under my personal protection,” Eivor said to their briefly entwined hands.

“Then she is the safest person in Ravensthorpe,” Randvi laughed, stepping away to place the pawn back on the map. “Though I must ask…” Randvi lowered her voice, “did you kill her father?”

“Did she say that? No! I,” Eivor sighed, “I freed her of delusion. Her father abandoned her. Whether by choice or circumstance. She was holding on to an impossible hope and wasting away. No worthy father would leave his child alone for so long on purpose. He was either dead, or a louse. I told her we had a community across the river where she would no longer be alone. She did the rest.”

> _Sometimes kindness looks like cruelty. And there is no reason to expect thanks for doing the kinder thing if the beneficiary sees only the cruelty._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 Working titles:
> 
> \- More exposition please gods save me.  
> \- Sigurd gets mayd because Eivor is inherently sexier than him.  
> \- Ravensthorpe Youth Shelter: part one.  
> \- Canon divergent: the map stays intact.
> 
> I know this was set-up heavy, but I hope it was at least somewhat enjoyable. Next chapter will be spicier I promise. And it shouldn't take so dang long.
> 
> If you liked it please drop a kudo, a comment, tell a friend... you know all that. Comments genuinely make my day.  
> If you did not enjoy it, please feel free send it to your least favorite professor in lieu of your latest assignment.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What an embarrassment to believe we were both resisting temptation when all along, I was the one holding hard to something she likely never felt."
> 
> Randvi watches helplessly as Eivor seems to move on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks again to Adarbitrium for helping me with grammar.  
> Go check out her fic "Alla Ævi" if you haven't already. Which - statistically speaking - if you're reading this, you already have.
> 
> This chapter has some content warnings, so please read this  
> CW for:  
> • after-the-fact discussion of coerced/transactional sex  
> • after-the-fact discussion of sexual threats

> _ The city of Grantebridge was easily won, but Eivor has stayed another few weeks to help Soma Jarlskona with a problem of a personal nature. She said in her letter that if she came to the right conclusion, it would be dealt with by Soma, and not affect Ravensthorpe in any way. She would not betray Soma’s trust by revealing any further details. My scouts tell me she should be home soon, and I look forward to discovering what has happened. _
> 
> _ Mae’s goat pen has been built up into a fine permanent structure, not to mention the shipyard, the barracks, and Svend & Tove’s tattooing station.  _
> 
> _ In the meantime, a hunter - Petra - and her brother - Wallace - have offered up their services to the clan. I respect the mettle it takes for a Saxon to arrive at a new Norse settlement and pitch a tent directly in front of the longhouse doors without knowing a single person, relying only on confidence in one’s skills. And Petra is indeed skilled. With her among us, we will never want for meat or fur, and we might gain a better understanding of the wildlife in our new home. _

Eivor returned with more resources, more materials, and a new warrior to join her crew. This was not the first time Eivor had brought back a new warrior, but it was the first time she had brought them to meet Randvi.

The woman was small and broad - shorter even than Randvi. She had a long top flop of mud-colored hair tied haphazardly at the back of her crown. While the underside - from the temples all the way to the nape of the neck - was unevenly shorn to the scalp. 

Her nose had clearly been broken at least twice, and reset once, and she had an old curved scar on her right cheek that looked like it had been engraved slowly and deliberately. Painfully. But she greeted Randvi now with a broad smile, and warm clasp of the forearm. She leaned forward and looked like she was holding herself back from a hug, and though Randvi found the warmth infectious she was grateful for the woman’s restraint.

“Randvi!” the woman boomed, “I’m pleased to meet you.”

“This is Birna,” Eivor said, with a grudging fondness.

Birna grasped Randvi’s forearm with both hands, “Sunbeam here has told me all about you!”

Randvi grinned incredulously, and looked to Eivor, “ _ ‘Sunbe-’ _ ”

“I said Ravensthorpe would fall apart without you here,” Eivor mumbled, not meeting her eye, but also unable to resist a smirk of her own, “and so it would.”

“But  _ Sunbeam? _ ”

“Birna is here to help me with my report on Grantebridgscire. What happened there concerns her directly.”

Birna’s smile faded, and the delight leaked out of her, leaving her looking grim. 

Eivor and Birna went on to describe that the city of Grantebridge had been taken by treachery. Soma Jarlskona had held the city for years and built it into an active and bustling hub with the guidance of her three prized advisors:

Lif - master shipbuilder, Galinn - a warrior who spoke to the gods, and Birna - lovable scamp.

But the Saxons took the city using secret intelligence to win their siege. Secrets known only by Soma herself, and her three advisors - one of the three had betrayed a valuable secret. Soma was too close to the three of them to stay objective and had entrusted Eivor with the unenviable task of finding the traitor.

The traitor had been Galinn. His conversations with the gods, mixed poorly with arrogance and ambition had led him to put his own advancement above any consideration for his community, and the people who loved him the most. Soma had killed him right then and there without ceremony, and Birna and Lif had had to bury one of their closest friends. Not to mention - Randvi later connected - contend with the knowledge that someone they had loved and trusted had sold them out to the Saxons. 

“Why did you not stay on as Soma’s advisor?”

“She still has Lif.”

“Yes but to go from chief advisor to Vikingr in a clan of strangers seems a step down. Are you sure you’ll be challenged enough here?”

“I have carried many titles in my days, butterfly, and the one thing I've learned from every one is to know when it’s time to move on.”

“If Eivor vouches for you, I am glad that you have decided to move on to Ravensthorpe.”

Eivor clapped a hand on Birna’s shoulder in camaraderie. “As am I.”

* * *

Upon further thought, Randvi did not much care for Petra. This thought struck her for the first time one evening as she sat across from Petra and Eivor taking supper together at one of the longhouse tables.

Though Randvi’s initial impression had been admiration at her courageous, enterprising spirit, it suddenly seemed grossly presumptuous of the girl to set up her tent outside the main building in town.

Petra was perhaps five or six winters younger than Randvi, and she was beautiful. Dark hair and big dark eyes to match, set in a small heart shaped face. She beheld all things with a guileless curiosity and warmth. And she was untroubled with the anxious concerns that daily plagued Randvi’s thoughts. 

Randvi had never thought about her own appearance. It had served her well enough. No one pitied her husband, and many people throughout her life had openly admired her red hair. But now, across from this beautiful young woman - sitting beside Eivor conversing with familiarity - she felt pinched, and withered. She was faintly embarrassed that she had ever presumed to hold dear a single kiss shared three years past. She took another sip of ale. It tasted off.

“I hoped you might help me with a hunt tomorrow morning,” Petra was saying.

For some reason Eivor glanced up at Randvi, who took a piece of bread and pretended not to notice. “What kind of hunt?”

“There are wolves in the area. They are getting bolder and I worry about Mae’s goats.”

Eivor nodded sternly, “It is best not to leave such things unaddressed. I will see you at dawn.” And she stood and stalked into her room without a further word, or second glance.

Petra smiled into her hands - a girlish, fluttery smile that she then deigned to share with Randvi as though letting her in on a sweet secret. Randvi returned the smile as minimally as she could without being rude, and with a conspiratorial eyebrow raise Petra also left. Leaving Randvi feeling the groan of a deep fissure in her heart. Like the thrum of a frozen lake before the ice cracks open beneath you.

\--------

Late the next afternoon, Randvi stepped out of the longhouse, to see Petra kneeling before her tent surrounded by the children; Knud, Sylvi, and Eira. She was showing them how to make a rabbit snare; her soothing voice held their rapt attention like a song.

Petra looked up and smiled warmly, “Hello, Randvi,” she stood, “that’s good, Eira. Sylvi, see that loop? That’s the size you’re aiming for. Now keep trying, I’ll be back soon. I must speak with our lovely Chief Advisor.”

“Please call me Randvi.”

“With our lovely  _ Randvi,” _ Petra corrected herself with a quirk of the eyebrow. The children giggled. “Hello, Randvi, I hope you have had a nice morning,” she said with a broad sweetness.

“I’ve been well enough,” Randvi said stiffly, unable to match her affect.

“Apologies.” Petra shook her head and chuckled to herself. “Sometimes after speaking with children for awhile I forget how to speak like an adult. You understand.”

Randvi did not. But nodded as though she did.

“I have wolf pelts for you,” Petra said, “as a payment for allowing Wallace and I to stay. Wallace is still tanning them - Eivor and I tracked them down this morning; they won’t be ready for a bit, but I know you’ll be happy with them. The kills were clean, and Wallace is a skilled tanner.”

“This isn’t necessary. You bring value to the clan, by merit of your own skills. We don’t require payment.”

“Then it’s a gift. You can distribute them however you like. You wouldn’t turn down a  _ gift _ would you?” Petra said mischievously, and gods curse her, she was positively charming.

“Who could?” Randvi said.

* * *

Ravensthorpe got to keep Eivor for another fortnight. She oversaw new buildings, settled disputes (informal, away from the throne, of course), called feasts, moved supplies. Everyone appreciated her presence. Only Mae (who was still a little afraid of her) and Dag (who hated following her orders despite Sigurd’s command to do so) were unhappy about her presence. 

But Eivor thrived. The barber, Svend cut her hair - shearing it up over both ears this time, and all the way around, leaving only the top to hang down her back in ropes of braid. She’d always had so much hair, Randvi imagined this must have been easier to manage. With the sides of her hair gone, the full extent of Eivor’s childhood wolf-attack scar became more visible. Randvi caught herself examining the three parallel lines emerging from beneath the feathers of her raven tattoo, and stretching from her ear to the back of her skull. 

Eivor even stayed long enough for Svend to begin a full arm tattoo. Over the course of a few days, circles of runic text and bands of black crept down Eivor’s left arm ending in a rune on each knuckle. Randvi admired the artistry and spent one or two mealtimes half listening to the conversations around her, and mentally tracing the outlines of the runes healing on Eivor’s fingers.

Eivor spent more time with the children, humored their games, mediated their squabbles with all the seriousness they demanded, and in an unexpected turn of events, helped them rescue a tamed white wolf. 

(“I worried I would have to kill her in front of the children.” Eivor explained to Randvi that night, as the wolf lolled her enormous head across Eivor’s thighs)

She had grown into her own skin in the few short months in England; Randvi couldn’t remember ever having  _ known _ her so well before. 

Perhaps because before she had never had the opportunity to lead. Leadership came so naturally to her that it seemed hardly a thing she was  _ doing _ so much as a thing she was. Ego and pride were entirely absent. Randvi wasn’t sure it registered with Eivor what power Sigurd had left in her hands. She couldn’t imagine Sigurd - charismatic though he may be - seated on the throne with as much grace. Not that Eivor  _ ever  _ sat upon the throne.

* * *

Once Petra’s hunting lodge had been built (Petra and Eivor’s laughter as they worked clanged in Randvi’s ears like those deafening iron bells that hung in Saxon temples and addled the Christians so), Eivor came to see Randvi at the alliance table.

“Sigurd will be proud of what we have built here for him.”

“How could he not. You’ve done well, Eivor.” 

Eivor took in the compliment and stifled a smile, “Tell me more of Ledecestrescire,” she said, clearing her throat and forcing her face into a mask of seriousness, “I should like to join Sigurd soon.”

“Sigurd has met Ubba and Ivarr Ragnarsson - here.” Randvi pointed at the map, “According to Sunniva, they are on the verge of exiling the current king of Mercia, with the hope of installing a king of their own.

“A bold endeavor.” Her buoyant mood shone through again at the promise of such an exciting undertaking, “I should be there to help. But should I go now? Do you think I have accomplished enough here? I do not wish Sigurd to think I have slacked my duties in my eagerness to join him… and meet the Ragnarssons.” Her mouth quirked in excitement at the prospect of meeting such famous potential allies.

Her sincere consideration, and genuine desire to do  _ enough _ filled Randvi with a painful bloom of fondness. The alliance with the Danes in Grantebridgescire, half the town built up into permanent structures, a thorough exploration of the surrounding territories… if all that were not enough, Sigurd was a fool. “You’ve done wonderful work, Eivor,” Randvi reiterated, “I do not say that lightly. You are our most prized asset.”

“Thank you. I must help Petra carry one of her recent kills, but after that I will join my brother.”

* * *

> _ It is becoming increasingly difficult to look across the alliance table at Eivor and not think of what could be. I tell myself it is only Sigurd’s absence, but the lie grows thinner, weaker by the day. _
> 
> _ I’ve been foolish, selfish, cruel, small, stupid to imagine that the conflict would always be on my end. That she would always be available to tempt me. Of course she would find someone else. What kind of arrogant vain creature am I to have ever thought that Eivor Wolf-Kissed ever pined for me the way I did for her. What a fool to think that my feelings ever had any sway on her. What an embarrassment to believe we were both resisting temptation when all along, I was the one holding hard to something she likely never felt. _

* * *

> _ Eivor has been gone for a month. Summer has cooled into autumn, and the door has finally been mounted to separate my map room and the connected jarl’s quarters from the rest of the longhouse. It doesn’t hang quite right. There is some warping in the wood. It will neve quite close all the way, but I don’t anticipate this being a problem. Nothing to see in the ready room other than dull conversation. Mae has begun spending afternoons with me in the map room. She is mostly quiet, which I appreciate, and does not overstay her welcome. She is, in fact, almost worryingly meticulous about when she visits and how long she stays. She is like a little adult, and I wonder how long she spent alone.  _

“Why don’t you spend time with the other children?”

“I am too old for their games,” Mae said.

Sylvi was nine, and Mae was 12. A difference of three years. But Randvi could remember the chasm such a small difference had made between herself and her sister. How dull Thora had seemed when she was twelve and Randvi eight. But also how impossibly capable. “Very well,” Randvi said, “if you need any -”

“I would like to know why you have that.” Mae pointed to the prayer book hanging from Randvi’s belt, “Are you a Christian?”

Randvi looked down to where Mae was pointing: the palm-sized book hanging from her hip - opposite her hammer, and just as valuable. This was a reasonable question, as the soft black leather was unmistakably stamped with an elaborate raised cross. It was a bit battered where it had bumped into her surroundings, and where she had worried the raised pattern with her fingernails, but it was certainly a cross.

“Ah.” She unclipped it from her belt, and sat next to Mae. “I am not a christian, and this is not a christian holy book. Though it may look the part.”

She opened the book - the jewel of her  heimanfylgja . And flipped through the spectacularly vibrant illuminations of the first few pages. She brushed her fingertip over the first page, half of which was taken up by a single letter, and surrounded by tightly twisting vines in blue, green, and yellow, and flecked with gold. The incomprehensible latin text of the original transcriber was tight, prim, and uniform, and they only comprised a few pages of the thick little book. The rest were blank but for Randvi’s personal writings.

“This was originally given to me by my father, to give to my future husband.” She said, “My father received it from Ragnar Lothbrok himself - the story goes. It is from his first raid in England. The monk who was copying it…” she flipped ahead to an empty page, “never got to finish. You see?”

The girl nodded, and Randvi flipped back again to one of the book’s few full page illustrations: an ornate gold frame surrounded a naked woman in a forest of fruit trees, reaching for a fruit offered by a snake-shaped goddess with a human face and breasts. The goddess and the woman’s faces were serene and knowing, as if performing an inevitable exchange. The details were so fine they must have been painted with a brush a single hair thick. Randvi didn’t know what the Christians believed, but she had occasionally filled in the story for herself. She thought the woman had taken a perilous journey to seek the favor of a goddess (but didn’t Christians have one god?) or magic beast, or sorceress. Perhaps she had taken off her clothes to cleverly trick the being into believing that she was something other than human. 

Mae craned her head to look and Randvi snapped the book shut. 

“Why do you carry it with you if you are not a Christian?’

“I use the blank pages to make notes and keep track of my thoughts.” She flipped to the pages filled with her own tight, barely legible scribblings, flipping too fast to read. She’d had it for three years and the book was barely half filled.

Mae looked up at her, horrified, “To desecrate a holy book... that’s blasphemy,”

Randvi brushed a finger over the cover, thinking of the fine brushstrokes and gold leaf next to her pedestrian musings, and sighed, “Sometimes I feel the same.”

* * *

> _ Eivor has now been gone for two months.  _
> 
> _ A baker has moved into an empty plot of land near the river. Even with a makeshift oven his presence has already improved our quality of life. Something about having a baker makes Ravensthorpe feel permanent. _
> 
> _ Mouse - the wolf - sleeps on her bed and glares at me with accusing eyes whenever I pass by. She’s a docile creature, but one could never mistake her for tame. _
> 
> _Svend_ _has died. Quietly in his sleep. Tove is in mourning and I do not know how to help._
> 
> _ I never understood their dynamic. They were married, they loved each other deeply, but that love was unlike that of a husband and wife. I recognize that this is quite a thing for me of all people to comment upon, but it struck me that they never sought companionship elsewhere, or even desired it. I always wondered how they found each other, these two artistic hearts with little desire for the fire of the bed. _
> 
> _ Tove is mourning as though she has lost a piece of her soul. I am terrible at this, and beyond bringing her food I do not know how to help her, but I know Eivor was close with Svend. I wish she were here now. _

“Sigurd is on his way.” Norvid was out of breath, “He should be here within the hour.” 

Randvi put the paper she was working on down and thanked Norvid for the intelligence, sent him away, and tried to get back to work. Within minutes she was pacing her map room, unable to concentrate on anything of substance beyond the imminent arrival of her husband (and Eivor). 

They would come from the stables. They would enter far on the other side of the longhouse, and walk toward the map room, and Sigurd would kiss her cheeks and she would smile at Eivor over his shoulder and ask them about their journey. The three of them would sit, and drink, and laugh. She would sit next to Sigurd and look at Eivor across the table as she shared tales of her exploration. She heard the far longhouse doors open and rushed to stand beside the throne with one hand placed on its high back as a group of backlit figures approached.

When they were close enough to see, her face fell: it was not Sigurd and Eivor. Instead it was a group of Raven clan warriors escorting a young Saxon man.

He looked soft and unprepared for a fight, but his eyes were kind and intelligent. He beheld his surroundings fearlessly, from the warriors escorting him, to the mounted animal heads on the walls. He stood before the raised throne platform, and greeted Randvi with a deep, distinctly Saxon bow. The sort of bow reserved for a queen. 

“Your ladyship, I am lord -  _ prince,”  _ he corrected himself, a look of puzzlement briefly glancing his face, “Ceolbert of Mercia.” Again, he bowed, “Your Jarl, Sigurd Styrbjornsson,” he said the name slowly with self-consciously perfect pronunciation, “led me to your settlement before journeying on to his next -”

“Sigurd led you here,” Randvi interrupted, crossing her arms, “and he did not stop?”

“He foresaw that you might not believe me; I have a letter vouching for my story.”

Randvi believed that Ceolbert was who he said he was, but she was surprised that Sigurd hadn’t stopped to see Ravensthorpe. He had been gone for months. Was he not curious about what they had built in his absence? Did he not wonder about his people?

“I was sent here to learn how to lead,” Prince Ceolbert continued. “And to stay safely out of sight until my father’s rule is more solidified. I feel confident that I will learn much under your guidance, my lady.” He bowed a third time. 

“Did Eivor go forward with Sigurd?”

“Oh! Eivor. We parted ways back in Repton.”

Randvi sighed heavily, “Very well, my lord.”

“My apologies, my lady,” Ceolbert said haltingly, “I have said something wrong.” Randvi couldn’t help but feel a little warmth towards the lad for all his faltering concern

“Not at all, my lord Prince Ceolbert. You are welcome.”

* * *

Eivor arrived a few days after Ceolbert. In that time, he had made himself known to the rest of the clan. He put people at ease quickly, and before long everyone was fond of him. Gunnar was happy to have a new recipient of stale gossip, and Petra - ever sociable - was happy to have a new person to befriend. The children were happy of a new adult willing to go along with their games, and Mae put him to work right away - somehow managing to task him with all the chores that had to happen at dawn.

But most of his time was spent with Randvi, learning how to manage the daily ins and outs of a small town - to prepare himself to manage an entire kingdom. He poured over Randvi’s maps, constantly underfoot, though occasionally helpful. He sat at the table in the corner of the map room asking thought provoking questions and making insightful (only occasionally insulting) observations.

(“I see by this map you have barely scratched Mercia.” 

“Give it time, Little lord”)

Which is where Eivor found them. She greeted Ceolbert warmly and the conversation quickly pivoted to Sigurd. 

“He was a good guide and even better company,” Ceolbert gushed.

Of course he’s good company, Randvi thought sourly, if he deigns to find the time to speak to you, he is  _ excellent _ company.

“He told me some incredible stories about you, Eivor!” Ceolbert said. 

“Hopefully nothing too embarrassing,” Eivor said with a laugh.

“There were a few gems -”

“Not to interrupt, Eivor,” Randvi interrupted, “but what of Ledecestrescire?”

Eivor finally turned her attention to Randvi, “The alliance is won. The sons of Ragnar are friends to us.”

“Lord Ceolbert, do you mind if I hear Eivor’s report? We may continue our discussion later.”

“Not at all!” the lad said. He bowed deeply to her and left, closing the door as far as it would close behind himself.

Eivor looked fondly after him, “When we first met, he bowed to me like that. Like I was a _ fine lady. _ I don’t think he knew what to make of me.”

“I was hoping for more details about your time with the Ragnarssons for my records,” Randvi prompted, “any smaller alliances, contacts, any locations of note…”

Eivor’s body shifted from the ease Randvi had become familiar with in Ravensthorpe, to the warrior’s braced and ready stance she’d known back in Norway.

“The Ragnarssons took over Repton - burial place of the most revered kings of Mercia. Mercian nobles wanted peace and were willing to do anything to secure it, but the king was missing, leaving his people to suffer. Ceolwulf - young Ceolbert’s father - stepped up to take the throne with intention to work alongside - or rather in service to - the Ragnarssons.

“We had to drag the old king out of hiding for the new king Ceolwulf to consider the abdication of power legitimate in the eyes of his god. Ivarr wanted to kill the previous king, but Ubba and Sigurd agreed with Ceolwulf.” She rattled off the rest of the events by cold rote and Randvi was left with the impression that she wanted to be finished telling them as quickly as possible.

“Is that all?” Randvi prodded.

“That is all.” Her broad shoulders sagged, her eyes were hooded and low. Randvi suspected that that was not all.

“Very well,” Randvi said in her clipped businesslike tone, “you have done excellent work, as usual.” Eivor beamed through her exhaustion at the praise. Randvi continued, “Get some rest, say hello to your wolf before she hates me forever. We shall have a feast tonight and I hope you will share a drink with me.”

* * *

Randvi barely had to make any arrangements for the feast that night. All she did was spread the word and all of Ravensthorpe came together to form a worthy celebration.

Eivor tried her best to stay to the side and out of the way, and didn’t realize that the town’s buoyant mood was largely due to her return. She graciously greeted everyone who came to welcome her home, and engaged in politely buoyant conversation. Randvi could see that she was more subdued than usual and couldn’t understand why no one else could.

In the corner seated across from Randvi, and horn of ale in hand, Eivor’s joyful mask slipped a fraction, revealing a sliver of the troubled heart behind it. Randvi dearly wished to comfort her but could think of no way to do so.

“Ceolbert is a sweet young man,” Randvi said conversationally.

“Too generous. Too trusting. Too noble,” Eivor said. “He has much to learn. And I fear for how he may happen upon these lessons.” She took a sip and shook her head, “I am glad he is away from the guidance of Ivarr the Boneless.”

“Ivarr Ragnarsson?”

“The very one.”

“Surely the lad should be lucky to have such a… famed mentor.” But even as she said it, Randvi doubted that was necessarily the case.

Eivor raised an eyebrow at Randvi and sighed. That exhaustion Randvi had sensed was palpable, “Imagine for me,” Eivor said, glowering into the distance out the longhouse doors as though conjuring the memory, “one of those saxon temples all of stone. Blood soaks between the tiles. As you enter, you see a blinded man, blood still spreading on the spots where his eyes once were. He is forced to stab a weeping man dangling from his ankles. This is, in a way, the torturer’s torture in turn. And all the while a Dane - spindly and whip-strong - conducts their movements with delight. Like he is a child reenacting a saga. 

“The two men were spies. Ivarr told me. A symptom of subduing an island of weaklings who would rather shake hands and stab you in the back later than meet today on the battlefield as men.

“I will never forget what he told me: ‘I love them whipped weeping and stinking of piss.’” She worked her jaw back and forth, and cleared her throat, “And then he dropped the man on his head. Letting him die slowly, broken and bleeding on the stone floor. In too much pain to even cry out.” She took a slow sip of ale, still staring impassively at the image in her memory.

Randvi watched her throat as she swallowed, then looked at her hand on the table. She wanted to reach out and place her hand atop it, but was afraid of interrupting Eivor’s willingness to discuss this.

Finally Eivor spoke again, “I have seen terrible things, Randvi,” her voice was quiet and more than usually hoarse, “acts of cruelty I could never dream recount to you. But lately I have begun to… disappear into those moments. I take them so well in stride it frightens me. There is a voice within that tells me this is how it should be. That pursuit of glory is all, and those who are broken and abused along the way were pursuing their own glory - or simply in the way of mine. I have never questioned this but,” she furrowed her brow and shook her head as though trying to rid herself of a thought, “but I don’t know if I should listen to… that voice. I do not know if I would still be myself if I were to do so. And I would rather not lose myself.” 

Randvi had the odd impression that Eivor was telling her the truth by keeping something back.

She continued. “Ivarr is to Ubba, what Eivor” she pointed to herself, ‘is to Sigurd. We are both the weapon held in the right hand of a diplomat. But I think he would be happy to lose himself if it meant his glory.”

“They were not what I expected. I do not know what I expected. The bold sons of Ragnar bellow to sound the spear din and the thunder of shields! To fight among such legends! I had heard tales of their conquests. I never dreamed I would get to live them!” she sighed, “I am not disappointed so much as… uneasy… uneasy in my deepest being that  _ these _ are the men of stories. I do not know why it makes me uneasy.”

She rubbed her eyes and rested her forehead on her hand, looking up at Randvi through her fingers. “Ledecestescire was… a trial,” she said after a while, her gravelly voice wavering uncharacteristically. “It has forced me to contend with the fragile finality of my own flesh.”

“You can tell me if you want,” Randvi said, “for the sake of telling. Not as part of the report.”

“We had to contend with a double dealing mercenary, Tonna,” Eivor scoffed. “As soon as the Ragnarssons were unwilling to pay her more, she helped the deposed king escape and demanded a high price for her information. But we acquired the information we nee-”

“If the Ragnarssons were unwilling, how did you and Sigurd -”

“I met her price.”

Eivor did not meet her gaze. A cold revelation slithered down Randvi’s gut, “I see,” she said gently, allowing the subject to rest there.

“When we couldn’t find the deposed king, we kidnapped his wife - Aethelswith - hoping to get his location from her,” Eivor chuckled. “She spit on me.  _ And _ Ubba. Wiry little thing. Charming. The men tried everything. Almost everything (they wouldn’t let Ivarr interrogate her the way he wanted). None of the men could get her to talk but they sent me in to try. I stood before her, a queen chained up in a pigsty. She sat upon a hay bale like a throne.

“When I saw her I realized why they had sent me,” Eivor shook her head and laughed. “Sometimes I forget that I am a woman,” she said. “Which is to say, I forget that this,” she gestured to herself, “means something different to the saxons than it does to us. I thought of you, Randvi.”

“Me?”

“Yes. They knew Aethelswith would see another woman, not another warrior in a parade of warriors come to interrogate her. But I… I  _ am _ a warrior,” she laughed helplessly into her drinking horn. “I didn’t know how to speak to her the way  _ she _ would expect a woman to. I spoke to her the way I imagined you would. So I must thank you…” Eivor’s eyes flashed mischievously, “How may I thank you?”

“I think you underestimate your skills.”

“Perhaps.” She shrugged and took another drink, “Then I killed Tonna.”

“The mercenary you -”

“I was relieved she gave me a reason to kill her. She did not like that I had used the information I extracted from her on our night together. ‘ _ Our night’ _ together,” Eivor scoffed and looked at the air around her, as though searching for the words. “Until I encounter moments like that…” the warrior poet was at a rare loss for words. “It never crosses my mind. I enjoy it until I encounter moments like that.”

“Enjoy what?”

“Being who - what - I am. I liked speaking to the queen. She was not wrong to expect more… patience and reason from me than my brother or the Ragnarssons. Though I am not what  _ she _ expects of a woman, I still am one.  _ And _ I am a warrior. I would not want to be any other version of myself,  _ but _ ,” it sounded like a heavy exception, and again Eivor searched the table for words, “I would prefer if it mattered less.

“That night with Tonna… I felt…” she ground her teeth and her lips twisted as though with a bitter taste, “that night I had more in common with queen Aethelswith than I had with Ivarr. Like when Kjotve had me tied up and ready to ship off. But not before threatening me with that tired, old, universal threat.”

Randvi clenched her fists on the table, and a soft expression of commiseration crossed Eivor’s face. As though Randvi was the one in need of sympathy.

“ _ Threats _ ,” she reiterated, “nothing but threats. Still, threats designed to remind me what I am. The distinct… vulnerabilities of our sex. Kjotve is dead but his tactic of control persists. Among the saxons, among the Danes and Norse...

“If the mercenary had taken a shine to Basim, I wonder if Sigurd would have encouraged him to play into it the way he encouraged me. I wonder if my brother would have done what I did if she had desired him, instead.”

The murderous rage must have shown on Randvi’s face because Eivor placed a hand on her wrist, (her fingers encircling the narrowest part of Randvi’s wrist, her thumb brushing against the soft pillow of flesh on the underside of her hand) and raised an eyebrow in mock seriousness, “I did kill her, you know.”

Randvi laughed without joy, but it felt better than crying out at frustration on Eivor’s behalf. If Eivor, powerful drengr, beloved leader, was not safe from such shallow cruelty, who was?

“Thank you for listening, Randvi. Few are lucky enough to have a friend such as you.”

Randvi felt a thrill at that tangible designation. They had never felt like family, they had never really been lovers, they had hardly had the chance to even like each other. They had simply been unable to avoid each other, and unable to be near each other. But now they were truly friends, and everything she felt for Eivor had a place to go.

“It sounds like you’ve had too much excitement, Wolf-Kissed,” Randvi said wryly.

“Is that so?” Eivor smirked.

“It is. And I have not had nearly enough. Perhaps _ I _ should secure our next alliance, and you should play map-maiden for the next fortnight.”

“Hmm… your hammer has been looking a little dusty. Perhaps you are right! You should take the next opportunity to quench your thirst for battle. I will stay here. And for once: sleep.”

They parted ways then and tended to the rest of the feast attendees. Eivor went on to win a flyte against Birna, while Randvi and Ceolbert continued their discussion about Norse power structures from earlier that afternoon. The lad was as insightful as ever, and by the time Eivor returned, he was waxing philosophical on the nature of language and exploration.

“Ceolbert,” Eivor teased, “your father sent you here to learn, not teach.”

Randvi smiled, she’d said the same thing to Ceolbert every day since his arrival, “Then you must start Eivor,” she said. “Give us a summary of our recent gains, for instance.” It would save Randvi from having to explain their alliances every time someone came to her with questions, “The clan is thirsty for knowledge.”

Eivor looked surprised, “You want me to give a speech.”

With a bit of encouragement from Randvi and Ceolbert, a reluctant Eivor stood before the throne and held up her horn, “My friends, hearken to me! And hear a tale of triumph and toil. I have traveled far since we landed, and seen much on the roads and fields of England...” 

The nervousness disappeared within the first sentence, and as she regaled the Raven clan with Tales of Grantebridge and Ledecester, Randvi felt a deep fondness for this woman, who could cleave a man with one swing but felt nervous to give a speech when asked. It was a fondness deeper even than the shallow desire had been when they first met. She felt proud to have such a friend.

“By Sigurd’s hand and my own, we have strengthened the ties of -”

“You seat yourself as Sigurd’s equal in these tales of yours,” Dag’s barking cut through the story, he stood from his bench. “Would Sigurd do the same if he were here?”

Whispers rippled through the longhouse at the challenge.

“I do not claim to be Sigurd’s equal,” Eivor said steadily. Something nearly imperceptible shifted in her demeanor. Randvi blinked and suddenly Eivor held herself large - like a being so sure of their power and authority that a challenge is more an amusement than a threat. Like a mountain entertaining an audience with a mouthy shrub. “But I know what honor I am owed. I will not shy from the triumphs I have fairly won, Dag,” she declared. “Let glory seek and find those who have earned it. If that means me, so be it.” The strange transformation slipped away, returning Eivor to herself so immediately, and so totally that Randvi wondered if she had really seen anything or imagined it, “If that means you, any one of you, all the better.” Everyone listening in murmured appreciatively, proud to be included in her conception of glory. “And so I raise my horn! To Sigurd, may he return to us soon. And to the Raven clan, the best of friends, and fighters!”

“To Sigurd!” Randvi cried over the cheers.

“To Sigurd,” echoed the gathered Ravens.

But Dag wasn’t satisfied, “To Sigurd,” he gibed, after the first wave of cheers ebbed, “may he return and relieve us of you!”

Eivor’s smile stayed in place, but her eyes became ocean ice, “And may all of you enjoy the ale as much as Dag has,” she ribbed, to scattered laughter.

“You think me drunk, Eivor?” Dag said, low and angry.

“It would explain your boldness.”

“My eyes are clear and open,” he said, taking a step toward, daring her to respond. 

Just then, Sunniva sprinted into the longhouse with a shout: Ravensthorpe was under attack.

Without a wasted second, Eivor barked orders to the assembled Ravens, Randvi took hold of her “dusty” hammer and they all rushed out to where the battle already raged. 

The attackers were Danes, unfamiliar to Randvi’s eye, and they had come with no purpose other than to raid. But why raid a well protected Norse settlement?

“For the Raven clan!” Randvi crowed as she slammed her hammer into a warrior’s spine.

“Does this stir your thirst for battle, Randvi?” Eivor shouted, breathless.

Randvi ducked beneath a Dane’s swing and knocked his feet out from under him, “It does!” And she turned in time to see Eivor parry an attacker behind her, kick him to the ground, bury her axe in another man’s neck, pick up his now abandoned spear, and with a wolfish cackle, throw it at the first attacker with enough force to fly clean through his chest and impale the earth beneath him, pinning him to the ground. She then glanced back at Randvi with a grin, braids flying, her teeth dangerous, her eyes narrowed and sharp, and Randvi’s heart dropped into her belly.

She had optimistically assumed that this newfound fondness for Eivor’s personal character had superseded the attraction for her - which had previously been untethered to any positive impression of Eivor herself. But as she saw her in her element - the effortless grace of her movements, her green eyes flashing with that confident fire, her strong hands gripping the handle of her axe and covered in blood, the muscles of her arms flexing efficiently with exertion - Randvi realized now with a horrible sinking helplessness that the lust had not disappeared, or even diminished. In fact it was now bolstered by a strong affection for Eivor the woman. Time slowed and the earth shifted beneath her as she realized this cruel and impossible truth: She was falling in love. 

Fuck.

She stumbled as time sped up again and an attacker rounded on her. She barely managed to evade his axe, trapped his wrist between her arm and ribs, and slammed her hammer into his shoulder. 

That was too close. It would be stupid to die because her focus had slipped thinking about love. “Only a few cowards left,” Randvi cried, “drive them off!”

The battle lurched to an end at dawn. Despite their numbers, the Danes were defeated. They seemed already weakened and tired, and with Eivor there, killing five for every one that landed a hit, they hadn’t stood a chance.

Eivor and Randvi reconvened when the last of the invaders had fallen. There had been no indication of why they’d been attacked and it seemed they never would when Dag - in a rare display of allegiance - brought a survivor to Eivor for interrogation. 

The man was obstinate and rude, and Randvi could see Eivor’s hand twitch for her axe, already polished by blood this night, ready to kill the man without learning a thing.

“Send him home with a warning,” Randvi offered carefully, hoping that Eivor would understand her true counsel. “Let him tell his people what death awaits them here.”

Eivor searched her face and took a deep breath. “Go,” she told the prisoner. It looked physically painful for her to defer the man’s death, “and do not return.” The man scurried off and Eivor murmured to Randvi (her breath sending a distressing shiver down her neck). “Send one of your scouts to follow him.”

But before Randvi could so much as take a step, Dag had thrown an axe at the escaping prisoner, severing his spine, and any hope of discovering further intel.

“Dag!” Eivor exploded “what have you done!”

“You would have us known as cowards!”

“We could have found who sent him. Now we know nothing!”

“Sigurd would have acted as I did.”

“Sigurd is not here! But I. Am. And if you cross me again -”

“I see you Eivor,” Dag interrupted, his voice a dangerous rumble. His eyes grazed over to Randvi and for a flicker of a second she felt the punishing weight of his suspicion and loathing, “And I know what you are.” Without waiting for a reply he turned and left. 

Eivor spat on the ground and fumed as Randvi quickly calculated what Dag thought he knew, and how best to deal with him.

“Put no stock in what Dag says,” Randvi said numbly.

“Get this cleaned up,” Eivor snarled - more at Dag’s disrespect than the order, “then we will talk of next steps.” And she stormed off, a cloud of fury following. 

Randvi closed her eyes and took a centering breath, her left hand instinctively reaching to outline the raised design on the outside of her prayer book - only to find that the book was missing.

* * *

Randvi moved about the following week in a daze. She decided that enough was  _ enough _ ; she couldn’t carry on like this. She did not find her prayer book, and took it as a sign from the gods: she had been too indulgent with herself, and her writing had only allowed her to luxuriate in impossible fantasies. To admit her feelings to herself had been a step too far. To entertain the thought of _ expressing _ those feelings - ridiculous. Eivor couldn’t possibly reciprocate. She had long moved past whatever their initial attraction had been - their strange dreamlike collision all those years ago hardly seemed real now. And if she did feel the same way, what then? Eivor’s loyalty to Sigurd had always taken priority over anything she wanted for herself. Randvi’s best hope, now, was for Eivor to focus her attention elsewhere. For Eivor to find love.

And she would allow her own love to fade to a dull, persistent throb of desire. A light with a small enough glow that she could place it in a box and hide it somewhere between her rib cage and her belly and the light wouldn’t leak out.

Eivor entered the map room, briskly, “Randvi!”

Randvi did not look up from her map, “Yes?”

“I f-” Eivor interrupted herself upon seeing her demeanor. “Are you well?” She spoke gently, genuinely concerned, “You seem distant.”

Her kindness thudded painfully in Randvi’s chest, “I’m fine. A little tired,” Randvi said, “but well enough. Shall we look at the map?” She turned away hoping that talk of alliances would put her misery out of Eivor’s mind.

Eivor took hold of her elbow and turned her back gently to look at her, searching her face, “Not until you tell me what is wrong.” Randvi let her eyes rest where Eivor’s hand touched her arm and noted with a dull victory that she didn’t feel that rippling jolt of sensation at their closeness. She didn’t feel anything. 

“O I think I have…” Hadn’t she? “I feel trapped. In this room, in this settlement,” she met Eivor’s eyes, begging her to understand, “in this life.”

Eivor smiled sympathetically, “I can get you out of this room. What do you say?”

Randvi took a step away,“I don’t know,” she said, “There is much work to be done.”

“ _ Stop _ .” Eivor sounded amused, like she was teasing her, “Forget about alliances and responsibility for a  _ moment _ . We could take a ride. To Grantebridge, or somewhere nearby.”

The thought of traveling with Eivor away from the eyes of the rest of the clan... her heart fluttered a little. It was deeply tempting. “That sounds lovely.” Too tempting. Randvi didn’t trust herself to keep her feelings back, and Eivor didn’t understand the humiliation she was setting her up for, “It’s simply too far to consider just now. Thank you, Eivor. Maybe another time.” But Randvi knew there would not be another time. “Now what was it you needed?”

Eivor fixed her with a steady gaze and opened her mouth, and Randvi braced herself for Eivor to push the matter. But instead she held out a little wrapped package and said, “I found this.” The blood drained from Randvi’s face. It was her missing book, “You must have dropped it in the attack. I read enough to discover its owner - but no more.”

“Thank you,” Randvi took the book, feeling sick. She hesitated. Something had to be said, but it hinged on what line she had read. Much of it was benign, but most of it was not. She couldn’t meet Eivor’s eyes. But something had to be said. “If you -” Randvi began. 

Just then, Petra rushed into the open door of the ready room.

“Randvi, Randvi!” she said, “May I speak to you please?” There were tears in her eyes.

“Of course,” Randvi said, concerned about whatever could cause Petra to cry, “please come in. Eivor do you mind postponing -”

“Eivor!” Petra cried, realizing she was there, “Will you help me? My brother has gone missing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5 working titles:  
> • Randvi becomes an Eivor/Petra shipper.  
> • Dag.  
> • Canon divergent: the longhouse has doors.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this far! As usual, if you liked it, please let me know! If you still hate my writing, please stop reading for your own health!
> 
> If you've made it through five excruciatingly long chapters, surely you've already left a kudos right? I'm going to stop asking for kudos here. Comments, however, are evergreen. And ever appreciated.


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